


Odds and Ends

by Khione_North



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Aftercare, Alisaie doesn't know how to knock, Anger, Angst, Canon Divergence, Clawing, Coffee Is A Valid Form Of Currency, Dancing, Dark Consort G'raha Tia, Dark Thoughts, Death, F/M, Fae AU, Feral behaviour, Fighting, Final Fantasy XIV: Shadowbringers Spoilers, Fluff, Grumpy Grandpa Emet, Hand Jobs, Ishgard (Final Fantasy XIV), Khione is fuelled primarily by spite and coffee, Love, Mating Bites, Miscarriage, Multi, Named Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Porn with Feelings, Reunion Sex, Romance, Rough Sex, Stomach Bulge, Throne Sex, Titania Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Trust Issues, Tumblr: FFXIVwrite2020, castle - Freeform, cuties being cute, fluffy fluff fluff, will write for coffee, winter imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:07:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 24,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26250904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khione_North/pseuds/Khione_North
Summary: A nice little collection of things I write during FFXIVwrite 2020.  Rating and tags are subject to change.
Relationships: Azem/Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 103
Kudos: 70
Collections: Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched Bookclub FFXIV-Writes 2020 Collection





	1. Crux

Her heart would end up broken, one way or another.

He would be the cause of it, one way or another.

He didn't want to cause her any more pain than was absolutely necessary.... But this was absolutely necessary. That was the crux of the matter. In order to save her, whom he loved so very dearly that it physically hurt him to simply even look at her, he would have to leave her with naught but broken trust and fleeting memories.

But she would live. Khione would live to fight another day, and she would save both the First and the Source, and eventually, she would forget him.

And though it left him feeling empty and numb, he could accept that if it meant she would live to find happiness.


	2. Sway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of FFXIVwrite 2020: Sway

Unsurprisingly, G'raha found her curled up amidst a mountain range of vast tomes and scrolls, oblivious to the world around her. 

While he certainly loved her all the time, these precious moments when her innate curiosity and hunger for knowledge held sway over her were some of his favourites. In these moments, she wasn't Khione North, Warrior of Light, Champion of Hydaelyn, Saviour of the First and Eorzea, Eikon Slayer, Heir of Azem.

In these moments, she was simply Khione.

"When was the last time you stood and stretched?" he purred, giving her an impish smirk.

Khione startled to reality, silver eyes wide for a moment before a soft smile lit across her face, and she chuckled sheepishly. "Since lunch."

G'raha shook his head, holding out his hand to his beloved. "Come, dance with me."

Khione laughed, a beautiful, glittering sound, even though it sounded quite like a witch's cackle. She took his hand delicately, positioning her other on his shoulder.

G'raha hummed a little tune, using the easy sway of his tail as a metronome.

Together, they swayed, lost in the moment, in each other, until Alisaie kicked down the door because Khione was late for sparring practice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Hope you enjoyed!
> 
> -Blue


	3. Muster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's only ever heard stories of her power.

"Fall back!" Khione shrieked, motioning for the soldiers around her to move, to get out of her way. G'raha could hear the exhaustion in the way her voice wavered and broke, see it in the tense set of her shoulders as she begged the mustered troops to scatter.

The order spread through the ranks — _'The Warrior of Light says fall back!' 'The Warrior of Light! She's planning something!'_

Their voices were reverent, even amidst the chaos. Everyone around him was preening like a muster of peacocks, proud to be in the Warrior of Light's shadow.

"Raha! You too!" his beloved snarled, an aethereal wind dancing through her blood-matted hair. G'raha obeyed, if only because he did not wish to add to her worries, not when his own ability to defend himself would not pass muster — taking a sword across the collarbone had done him no favours in that regard.

With the battlefield cleared save Khione's tiny form, a hush fell upon both sides of this blasted, bloody battle. The air went still, aether glowing around the sorceress's form. G'raha recognised that she was preparing to cast something big.

He was very much correct.

With the loudest wail she could muster, Khione unleashed the full power of her mightiest explosion spell upon the Garlean troops.

And then there was silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> -Blue


	4. Clinch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning! NSFW!

It started off as a pretty standard practice spar.

Khione had had G'raha in a clinch, attempting to show him how to escape such a hold. It quite awakened something in him.

He'd succeeded, only to turn and press her up against a nearby post with a feral glint in his scarlet eyes. He was hungry today, and not for food.

They only just barely made it back to Khione's room, tumbling to the bed in a tangle of limbs, ripping off clothing in between scorching, starving kisses that were more teeth and tongue than anything else.

She clawed at his back hard enough to draw blood when he entered her in a single, bruising thrust, marking him as hers in much the same way he'd marked her as his with his sharp fangs. G'raha only fucked her harder. Neither of them were going to last long. Neither of them wanted to last long.

Afterwards, they held each other in a different kind of clinch: the embrace of lovers, sweaty and exhausted, souls as intertwined as their still-connected bodies, uncaring of the mess they'd made of the room, the bed, one another. 

Alisaie was put in charge of sparring with G'raha after that.


	5. Matter of Fact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying out a new style. I kinda like it.
> 
> Enjoy~
> 
> This chapter rated M

She is tiny, and reminds him of a snowflake, so delicate and precious and _cold_. He didn't remember her being this small, back when they wandered the halls of the Crystal Tower together. She had still been little more than a wide-eyed adventurer then, shell-shocked from the fight against van Baelsar and reticent to accept the praise being tossed at her like roses to a bard.

He worries that she will melt as he trails searing kisses up her lily-pale spine, lavishing every scar and trophy of her many battles with the reverence and care she deserves — has always deserved, in his opinion, but has rarely gotten. That — more than the burn he knows blazes through her when he enters her slowly — is what draws a needy moan from her, and a vicious snarl from him. She has fought and nearly died for two different worlds on multiple occasions, and yet no one has thought to care for this tiny, beautiful woman when she so clearly craves something as simple as a touch.

He takes it upon himself to right such a wrong. His strong, full spoken hands explore her front, memorising the firm mountains of her breasts and the valley in between, the firm plane of her stomach, the gentle hills of her hips. With his lips, he learns the curve of her spine and the slope of her shoulders, and suckles on her earlobe. When he nuzzles his nose gently in the juncture between her neck and shoulder lovingly, she moans his name like a priestess' prayer, her body tightening around him. He can only hope that she is praying to grant him access to the haven that is her heart.

Their bodies move as one, and he forgets where his fire ends and her snow begins because together, they are a howling vortex.... But she is caught in the centre of the eye, and he can see that she still holds so much fear and uncertainty. It is almost a relief when she gives voice to it, quietly asking him why he is worshipping her body like a man giving himself over fully to a goddess. His heart breaks when she tells him that no one could love a broken traveler such as she, not when she her every step along the many paths of this world courts danger to those she holds most dear — and he, above all others, is dearest to her.

He answers her between urgent, love-filled thrusts, desperate to show her just how wrong she truly is.

"As a matter of fact," he purrs when they achieve release together, "I love you because of your broken pieces, and I would happily face any danger that threatens you."

Her joy is as radiant as the dancing lights in the nighttime sky above Ishgard in the dead of winter.


	6. Castle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "She is a fortress build with fortitude. She goes on when she’s deadbeat. She can't quit, because others are watching. She smiles instead."  
> -Tatsiana

She had grown up in the shadows of ancient spires jutting heavensward, age-old sentinels silently watching the fortress below. Under the all-seeing gaze of those pale, stone spears, and the ever-vigilant observations of the statues leading up to The Vault, she learned to turn her heart to ice and stone, and her mind to marble, unyielding as the mountains surrounding the city.

Her mother's friends had always said that she had been born to be a queen. How very wrong they were. She was no queen. Queens were ephemeral and by their nature unsteady, crowned only by the good graces of their people and sheer dumb luck in most cases. All they had to do was smile and be beautiful. 

She had no desire to be a useless queen. 

She was the castle itself, timeless, weathered stones protecting those who sought refuge within the walls of her heart. Even when her bones and soul were exhausted and weighed down with the weight of the star, she held her vigil like the statues of her childhood. Many had tried to chip her armour and bring down her walls. Some had almost succeeded. All had failed. She knew the whole world watched her for signs of weakness. She refused to give them even a single ilm.

Instead, she held her head high.... And smiled.

She was a woman of Ishgard, a handmaiden of Halone, castle and fortress and ruler all in one.


	7. Nonagenarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Brief Discussion Between Emet-Selch and G'raha Tia
> 
> A.K.A. two grandpas discuss the woman they both love, and Emet-Selch reveals the true nature of the WoL to G'raha.
> 
> This is totally not canon, I just had some inspiration and wanted to write out this conversation that should've been had but wasn't.

"I must say, Exarch," Emet-Selch purred, pacing around the room with his hands clasped behind his back, "watching you grapple with your feelings for her quite brings me back to when I was but a mere nonagenarian."

"And what would _you_ know about my feelings, Emet-Selch?" G'raha Tia spat, narrowing his eyes at the Ascian. He swore to Hydaelyn, to the Twelve, to any higher power that might be listening, that _when_ he was freed from these bonds around his wrists and ankles, he would claw the fiend's eyes out for even daring to bring up the matter of his feelings; they were sacred to him, a guiding light, his very motivation for his every action thus far, and he would not have the Ascian make a mockery of it.

"Actually, Exarch, I know quite a lot about your feelings for her." Emet-Selch's voice no longer held any hint of amusement or mirth or levity. It had turned into something dark and angry, full of pain, sadness, heartbreak, rage, the weight of eons of loneliness, and G'raha understood then _exactly_ what Emet-Selch was about to confess.

"You loved her too..."

Emet-Selch nodded slowly, his mouth pressing into a grim line.

"In those days, she was known by the title 'Azem,' and to our people, she was wandering star around which all others revolved. Where she walked, hope and peace bloomed as brilliantly as the sun in the noonday sky. People fell over themselves trying to court her affections, but only I was ever successful. I cared not for her constant absences — they only made our time together that much sweeter, that much more beautiful. I was more than happy to wait for her."

G'raha's ears drooped. "She is still like that. Colder, certainly, and incomplete, but she is still a ray of hope. She is still—"

Emet-Selch whirled on him, and pain lanced through G'raha's already-beaten body. "She is not the same! Until the shards are rejoined with the Source, she will _never_ be the woman she once was, she will never be _my_ Azem."  
  


"And so you insist upon killing her instead?"

"If that is what it comes to."

"I pity you, then. Full glad am I that I do not have to make such a choice."

Emet-Selch said nothing, and instead turned and disappeared through a portal, leaving G'raha Tia alone with his thoughts and feelings and pain once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading (as always)!


	8. Clamour

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A possible hint of things to come, a look back at things seen, the pain of things unseen, the quiet in the middle of a storm.

There is no quieting the clamour in her head.... Heavy is the head that wears the crown, her father always warned.

Her father.... she cannot remember him, not clearly, at least. She remembers how he smelled of pine and steel and conjury. She cannot remember his voice or the colour of his eyes. She barely remembers the colour of her own eyes. 

The King has no need for mirrors. Why would she, when she knows for fact that she is the most beautiful creature in these lands, in this broken, blasted world? Why would she, when her Consort reminds her with his words, his tongue, his teeth, his body, every morning and every evening?

The clamour in her head rails against thoughts of him, as though his presence is both right and wrong. There are two sides at war within her very soul, and the Consort is the adjudicator.

He has always held her heart, even when his face was shrouded in mystery and shadow, even when he slept alone in a tower of blue crystal, locked away from her. She cannot remember her past except brief moments. The moments involving him are among the clearest. He is her anchor, her blade in the dark, her partner. There is only one King of the Fae, but two hearts beat beneath that crown.

The din grows louder, pain pierces her very soul, and she crumples, that blasted crown tumbling from her head.

She is Khione Agesandra North, daughter of Agesander and Kore North. She is a sorceress of the Holy See of Ishgard, now a republic under the leadership of Lord Aymeric de Borel. She is the Warrior of Light and Darkness both, Hydaelyn's Champion, Saviour of Eorzea and The First, Liberator of Ala Mhigo, Bane of Garlemald, the Dragonsong, Beloved of G'raha Tia, the—

No, she is Cailleach, the Winter Queen Beira, King of the Fae, Titania, Guardian of the Veil, Beloved of the Consort. Her mortal identity is nothing. She saved this blasted world, these blasted lands, but it cost her her very life, and it was only through this crown that she was saved after the people of both worlds failed to save her.

Gritting her teeth, the King stands on unsteady legs. She grabs her crown of snowflakes and stars, and returns it to its rightful place atop her midnight-sky curls, but the crowded thoughts in her head do not hush, and she fears she may collapse again.

Just as her legs begin to give out once more, a pair of strong, warm hands catch her, scooping her into equally strong, warm arms that are lean and firm and beloved.

The clamour in her head disappears without a trace as the crown is plucked from her head and tucked into an empty satchel hanging from the Consort's belt. 

With the wonder of a child, the King reaches up to gently stroke velvet-soft ears, as familiar to her as her own hand. The Consort purrs and leans down to brush a kiss to the King's brow, hugging her close to him like she is the most precious thing in the world to him.

"It is late and you have not yet come to bed, [crown of winter]. I was worried."

His voice is home and hope and a reminder that, though they are trapped in this twisted, terrible nightmare dressed in beautiful silks and jewels, they are together, and they will prevail. 

In her Consort's arms, the King does not dream of unending winters or rage or fear or any of the dark things that often haunt her mind. Instead, she dreams of a mortal man and a mortal woman in a different world, whose heads are not weighed down by any title or crown beyond 'beloved,' and they are at peace. It is enough for now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation Guide
> 
> Cailleach: Cal-hee-ahckh  
> Khione: Kshee-OH-nee (the Ksch should basically be the K sound followed by the briefest hint of the sh/ch sound)
> 
> Kore: Core-eh
> 
> Agesandra: Aah-gay-san-druh


	9. Lush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, okay, we're just diving head-first into fAeU. Here, have some porn with feelings.

The Consort is in the midst of one of his darker days. He is silent and moody and brooding as he sits upon the throne, resting his chin on his fist, which in turn is propped by the elbow resting on his thigh. His face is shadowed, save for his luscious, taunting mouth.

The King does not like this state of affairs.

Though they were forced into these roles, these same-yet-new bodies, these twisted moods and minds, in the face of death; neither of them particularly enjoy the dark whisperings of the corruption that comes with the crown. They have no choice in the matter. Their spirits, their truest selves, are held prisoner by a childlike cruelty and a warped sense of morality and fun. They are beholden to their basest hedonistic urges and the most exaggerated caricatures of their mortal selves. Nothing is fun about their curse.

The King knows this. She hates it, yet loves it. 

But she loves the Consort much and more. It pains her to see him in these moods. He does not have nightmares like she does. She copes with their curse in her dreams. He copes with it in the waking hours.

She slowly prowls up to the dais, studying as much of the Consort's form as she can. He wears only the black, hooded toga now. 

"I thought I might find you hear, my [dark heart]," the King croons. Her hips sway seductively with every step she takes. She can tell by the way his ears stand to attention beneath his hood that her voice has caught his interest. Good. He can't plumb the depths of his own trauma and heartache if he's focused on her.

The King stops when her legs bump against the Consort's knees. She bends down to push back his hood, brushing the sharp tip of her nail along his jaw and under his chin to tilt his head up to meet her gaze.

The cheeky bastard steals a kiss.

The King does not mind.

She certainly does not mind when his hands come to rest upon her ass and he pulls her down to straddle his lap.

"Have you come to work your magic upon me, [Little Queen]?" His voice brushes up against her soul like a friendly lion, soft and warm and lush, yet deadly.

Were she wearing any sort of lingerie, it would be absolutely soaked.

She trails a hand down his chest, savouring the firm muscle beneath his robe, the heat that threatens to burn through the silk.

"You know it hurts me to see you so haunted. I thought you might appreciate the company~"

The King is all sweetness and coquettishness, and she emphasises her words by slipping a hand beneath his toga, humming in satisfaction to find that he is receptive to her attentions already.

The Consort smirks at her with those sinful, lush lips of his — lips that she has dreamt about since first she laid eyes upon them as a mortal woman still new to the life of adventure she had chosen. She has never stopped thinking about them, and she doubts she ever will.

Her strokes along his hot, throbbing shaft are languid and loving. Her eyes never leave his; nor his, hers. Words are not necessary between them. Not anymore. They are to each other as open books laid bare.

She knows exactly how to bring him to the edge.

The Consort groans as the King quickens her pace a little. He full snarls when the smell of her slick on his uncovered thigh hits his nose, and one of his hands moves from her ass to tease at her entrance. She shifts so he may attack her from the front should he wish to continue this line of thinking.

He does. Three fingers enter her, and he matches the pacing of her strokes until they are both frantic.

She will never get tired of moments like this. They have fucked on nearly every surface in this glittering palace. They only ever make love in the safety of their bedroom where none can intrude upon the meeting of their very souls; or on the throne, so that all who enter might see the immortal strength of their love for one another.

The King has to bury her face in the Consort's neck to keep herself from shrieking as she sinks onto his cock. He is another thing she will never tire of — the way he fills her so completely that they are One, the way he smiles at her with his eyes of glowing embers like she is the sun and the moon and the stars, the little hissing moan he makes as her body embraces him with every rock of his hips up into her. She will never tire of his silky hair that he allows her to braid for him every morning; or his honeyed, gravelly voice that sinks deep into her bones and reverberates through her head and coaxes her out of her darkest terrors when she becomes lost in the nighttime haunts of her dreams; or his scent of parchment and night-blooming jasmine and cool mists and shadow. She will certainly never tire of the kindness and love and patience that still shines in his heart, that slips out in the small moments of tenderness throughout the days.

The Consort steals kisses between gulps of breath, his thrusts firm but gentle.

They climax together. It is a quiet affair, swallowed up by a deep kiss that conveys all of the thoughts and feelings they dare not express in words for fear of the darkness of their curse corrupting this last, pure, beautiful thing.

It is only after they have sat in silence for many moments that either of them moves or speaks.

The King decides she is comfortable being impaled upon her Consort, who is already returning to hardness (for such is the nature of Fae males if one is ever so lucky), but she removes herself from him so that she can change positions before seating him in her once more.

The Consort hugs the King close, his chest to her back, and runs a hand over the faint outline of his cock in her abdomen.

"I'm quite ready to go again whenever you are, [crown of winter]," he purrs in her ear.

The servants of the palace steer far clear of the throne room for the rest of the night.


	10. Avail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: mentions of death, suffocating, self-loathing, suicidal thoughts, a small mention of blood and fatal wounds.
> 
> Have fun~

Some days, when his immortal self slumbers and his mortal self achieves clarity, he finds himself unable to tell where his nightmare ends and his reality begins. Perhaps, he thinks, they are one and the same.

Today, though, he knows he is in the realm of dreams, for he has already lived through this nightmare. 

_G'raha Tia did not care that he was dying, even as he could feel the crystal creeping up his torso towards his lungs. He only cared about Khione and the gaping hole in her side where the Emissary's blade had pierced her clean through. He only cared about the blood pouring forth from her, the gurgling gasps and rattling wheezes she made as she tried — and failed — to speak. He had already prayed to all the gods he could think of. They remained silent and unmoved. Even Hydaelyn seemed to have forsaken her Champion. G'raha wanted to curse them all. After everything that Khione had sacrificed for so, so many people and sentient beings, it appeared that, when most she needed them, they had turned their backs on her._

_He tried to call out to her, to lay bare the love he should have confessed long ago, but it was to no avail, not when his lungs were beginning to crystallise and his time was too short._

_'Please, someone, anyone, save her,' his soul begged into the aether._

_Feo Ul, King of the Fae, answered the call._

_They saved Khione and G'raha, and doomed them in doing so._

It is his fault that they are in this situation in the first place. Had he not called Her to the First, had he not sent her to fight ageless beings whose own hearts were warped and twisted by grief, had he only been faster and stronger and smarter and _better_ , they would not have died in the first place. Feo Ul would not have had to use the power of the Fae crown to save him and his beloved. They would be home, together, with the ones he vaguely remembers calling 'friend.' He would have been able to meet her parents. Perhaps he might have even chosen a ring and asked her to spend the rest of eternity with him. Something bitter in him wants to laugh at the fact that, at the very least, that last bit has come true.

Cailleach, the King, is his only solace. Her heart is his safe haven. Bodach, the Consort, knows that she feels the same way for him.

But he does not deserve her love. He never has. He never will. He treasures it all the same. It is more precious to him than his mortal soul, and he would rather die a second time than ever lose Cailleach's — no, Khione's — love. He swears that he will spend every day for the rest of his existence striving to be worthy of even a fraction of that pure, beautiful love that he glimpses in her eyes when their mortal selves are able to push past the twisted thorn vines of their Fae bodies. He does not deserve her unyielding love, but he owes it to her to try to be worthy. If only they could just find a way to cleanse themselves of this curse. It is all his fault, and he _loathes_ himself for it.

The Consort is too lost in the darkness of his own mind to notice the King's presence as she creeps up behind him until her pale, icy, too-thin arms wrap around his midsection. A part of him wishes she were carrying a knife to gut him with and release him from this mockery of a life.... But then who would care for her?

Her skin is cold, as always, when she rests her forehead against his back. He can hear her breathing him in, just as he can feel her mortal soul reaching out for his to offer him solace and safe haven. He does not deserve her love, but he treasures it anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pronunciation Guide:
> 
> Bodach: Bo-DAHCKH


	11. Ultracrepidarian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I laughed my feckin' arse off as I wrote this. I hope it brings you all the same joy.
> 
> RiP Alisaie.

"So.... What happens if Khione falls pregnant while she and G'raha Tia are still under this curse?" Alisaie muses, something a little akin to jealousy in her eyes. "Is the baby Fae or mortal? Would it be subject to the curse as well? Can Fae even become pregnant?"

Alphinaud nearly chokes to death on his tea and fixes his sister with a disapproving look. "Of course Fae can get pregnant, Alisaie. What a ridiculously silly question."

Alisaie cocks an eyebrow at her brother. "And you know this.... How?"

Alphinaud gives her a simpering smile that she has come to think of as his 'I'm a know-it-all and you're a mere uneducated peasant' smile. It makes her want to bash his teeth in.

"Khione's form is still mortal and I would imagine that the entirety of her anatomy is intact, which means all the necessary parts are present. One can assume the same is true for G'raha Tia. Miqo'te ruts, I've heard, also produce rather potent results, and given the fact that they're lovers and stuck in a castle together, I'd say there is a strong possibility of conception. You do understand miqo'te heat and rut cycles, yes? Well, just in case, a few times a year, miqo'tes undergo a two-week period of intense, bordering on obsessive, urges to breed. Females and males alike become aggressive in their search for a viable mating partner. Males are often driven into a frenzy and become extremely volatile until they are able to, for lack of a better description, fill a female with their seed multiple times. Females, meanwhi—"

"Alphinaud, STOP! Last I checked, you're not a miqo'te. I don't need a lesson on their reproductive cycles from you. I'm just going to go ask Urianger, who has actually lived with the Fae."

Alisaie was very glad to later learn that Fae such as Khione and G'raha Tia had become were not, in fact, capable of reproducing while under their curse.

She also had Y'shtola explain miqo'te reproductive cycles, if only so she could fact check her brother. To her dismay, although he had a tendency to be an ultracrepidarian, Alphinaud had been correct this time.

She wished Azem and Emet-Selch would hurry up and save Khione and G'raha, if only because they were better company than her brother.


	12. Tooth and Nail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rated E. Fae AU is dark and full of very dark things. CW: Blood, clawing, violence, dom/sub, feral behaviour.... Yeah just use your best judgement.

The King meanders through the palace, unbothered by the cold that surrounds her. Her gown of snow melts away as she reaches her study. She can smell the Consort already inside, still stewing in his anger and arousal. Perhaps she will have mercy on him.

Bodach is leaning against a corner by the window that is hidden from the silver light of the pale, full moon. Cailleach cannot see his face, for he has pulled his hood up, but she knows that he is watching her as she prowls toward him with the grace of a lioness. She stops in a puddle of moonlight. She can feel the heat of his gaze as he slowly, lazily rakes it up her body, and she tilts her head back to give him full view of her pale, thin throat.

He is upon her in seconds, his tail wrapping around her thigh so as to keep her from running off again.

“Are you done teasing me, [crown of winter]?” Bodach purr-hisses against Cailleach’s neck. “Or am I going to have to tie you down and make you behave?”

Cailleach gives her beloved a wicked sneer while one of her hands sneaks down the front of Bodach’s trousers to cup him firmly. It earns her another hiss that sends shivers through her. 

She intends to make him fight tooth and nail for her submission tonight.

"Define 'behave,'" she hums. She continues massaging his straining cock with one hand, her other tracing a line down her lover's bicep with the sharp tip of her nail. She outright claws him across his tattoo when he moves to push her up against the windowed doors to the balcony, and dances as far away from him as she can when his tail releases her thigh in surprise.

The glint in Bodach's eyes is positively beastial. 

"That wasn't very nice of you, [Little Queen]," he snarls as he lunges at her. He succeeds only in toppling over a large vase of snow lilies. It enrages him more. He doesn't even notice when he steps on shards of jagged pottery.

This is their game, their constant dance; it has been such since long before their curse. He has always chased after her, reaching and clawing his way to her side. She has always remained _just_ out of reach until the very last second. G'raha Tia loved and hated this game. Bodach is no different.

The Consort waits until the King lets her guard down before he disappears in a puff of shadow and reappears under her. His hood falls back to reveal ravenous eyes as he grips her thighs with bruising strength to hold her in place once more while he attacks her centre with his mouth. He is unforgiving in his onslaught, spearing her with his tongue while shadows play at her bud and her breasts. His King is shameless in the lewd noises she makes as she trembles above him, begging him in languages dead and living to keep going. She tastes like snow and steel and something sweet that he cannot quite name and he is intoxicated by it, by the musk of the forest of dark curls that guards this sacred realm that he calls home. His cock aches from her earlier ministrations and denials, and he desperately wants to fill her with his release, but he is also so desperately hungry for her ecstasy, so ravenous for the mere thought of bringing his King to her knees from his tongue and teeth and fingers alone. He is grateful that he has always been very talented with these things.

Bodach drinks Cailleach's orgasm down with the fervour of a dying man at the Fountain of Youth. When she has finally spent herself, he bites his way up her pale legs, sucking marks on each of her thighs that bloom like dark roses in a field of snow. He could worship these legs alone for hours if given the chance, but there is so much more of his King to worship and revere, and he wishes to claim every ilm of her, to remind her that, though today is the anniversary of their deaths, it is also the anniversary of their new lives and their new strength. Somewhere deep in his soul, G'raha Tia gives a pathetic cry that is drowned out by Bodach's frantic thoughts of what he should do to his Crùn a ’Gheamhraidh next. 

Bodach presses one last kiss to Cailleach's slit before he stands to scoop her into his arms.

"Shall I fuck you tonight, my dear, or shall I love you?"

The King grins wickedly. "I'll let you choose."


	13. Crown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a little excerpt from Gloria Regali. Have some Azem.

_Azem walks through a forest of pine and cedar, her feet near-silent on fresh fallen snow. Ahead of her, a mighty palace rises from the surrounding mountains, bright and brilliant and beautiful in the midwinter sun. The entire land hums with a magic that not even the greatest scholars of Amaurot fully understand._

_A multitude of tiny, wide, glittering black eyes peer out from the evergreens at the tall figure in her billowing black robes and strange black mask. They see her quicksilver eyes observing, learning, curious as she walks towards the clearing where their Chieftain awaits._

_The Amaurotine woman bows low and places a neatly-wrapped box at the Chieftain’s feet. It smells of almonds and sugar. The Amaurotine woman is smart. Fae friend._

_“{What brings you here, Daughter of Man?}” the Chieftain hisses in the musical language of the Ancient Fae._

_Azem’s crimson-painted lips curl into a polite smile that is at once knowing and self-assured. “The war between the Seelie and Unseelie tribes is beginning to worry the Convocation of Amaurot. I have come to see if some form of peace cannot be negotiated.”_

_The Seelie Fae — pixies and brownies and nymphs and all manner of strange and delicate creatures who only desire to have fun in peace — titter in laughter as one. They are taunting and amused._

_“{You would have better luck trying to make a mountain bleed,}” the Chieftain scoffs, waving her off with a lazy hand._

_Azem does not move. She merely continues smiling at the Chieftain._

_“{Amaurotine woman should go home. Peace impossible.}”_

_“What if I told you that I’ve already convinced the Unseelie Tribe to at least consider negotiating?”_

_The Chieftain’s laughter dies on their cyanide blue lips, depthless black eyes blinking rapidly._

_“{You have convinced Angry Ones to talk peace? How? What witchcraft?}”_

_Azem shrugs. A wave of her hand has a chair materialising out of thin air. She sits in it with ladylike daintiness._

_“I proposed a way to settle things once and for all.”_

_“{We are listening.}”_

_“A united Fae kingdom under one Crown. A King and a Consort, one from each Tribe. Equal power.”_

_The Chieftain narrows its beady eyes at Azem while other Fae bare needle-sharp teeth. Azem fixes them all with an unfazed stare._

_“{Unseelie Ones also agree?}”_

_“I have their sworn word with an oath on the Lethe.”_

_The Fae around her murmur and whisper, shocked. Vows on the River Lethe were sacred and unbreakable. Azem knows she has them beat._

_“{Very well. Seelie Fae agree too. Amaurotine will be adjudicator. Will help forge Crown.}”  
Azem nods with a proud, gentle smile._

**The scene shifts.**

_Azem stands among Fae of both tribes. Her hair is braided with spring flowers and gems as it snakes out from her hood. She bows to the Chieftain — now the King — and its Consort, a banshee of siren-like beauty, and then turns to the pair of Crowns nestled on a pillow of finest velvet._

_Her body glows for a moment, aether flowing around her like water as she directs it toward the headpieces._

_“Let it be known that the Crown belongs solely to the King of the Fae. By the word of the Convocation of Fourteen of Amaurot, Mankind shall never wear it, shall never rule over the wild lands of the Fae. I weave this spell of soul protection, that it may guide the King and their Consort in all things, in wisdom and truth and grace and beauty. Let it never be tainted by the dark thoughts of this world. Let it give power to the King and Consort, that they may lead and protect these lands from those who would wish harm upon the peoples of the Fae. I pray all of this with my soul, and grant a fragment of my power as a symbol of my commitment to these promises.”_

_The magic weaves itself around the Crowns, infusing them with the radiant golden glow of Azem’s power._


	14. Part

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today we're taking a break from Fae AU and exploring one of my HCs for Azem and why she left. Please pay attention to the CW.
> 
> Also please be sure NOT to read this while on the phone, in class, or otherwise somewhere that crying is not socially acceptable.
> 
> CONTENT WARNING: Discussion of miscarriage

_“My dearest Hades,_

_There is so very, very much I wish to say to you, but words would make the sentiments pale and boneless when I need them to be stronger than I ever could be._

_I suppose I should start with answering the question that has no doubt haunted you since I left._

_Why did I do it?_  
_It would be easy enough for me to give you the same lie I gave to the rest of the world; I could not stomach the thought of calling upon an unknown entity whose very nature we could not guarantee, nor could I stomach the thought of sacrificing new life for the return of old._

_It is a beautiful lie, and one that paints me rather heroically, I will admit._

_But it is still a lie, and you deserve the unreserved truth._

_When Hygieia informed me of the spark of aether distinct from my own, my first thought was of wondering what side of their head their hair would part. It seems silly, in retrospect, but such is the shock of finding that one is to become a mother._

_My second thought was of pure, unyielding fear. I knew I could not expose a child — **our** child — to the potential ramifications of Zodiark’s summoning. I made my mind up then and there, and swore to myself that I would do anything — **anything** — to protect that bright, beautiful spark, even if it meant leaving my soulmate. _

_I packed my bags that night._

_I still remember the parting kiss I gave you. I tried not to weep at the thought that it would be our last. You seemed so confident and assured, a man who knew what he was doing. The man I fell in love with all those centuries ago, when we were first years at the Akadaemia, who teased me mercilessly in that wry, snarky way of yours, for being so short and yet so powerful._

_I wish I could tell you that our daughter, our Chione, has grown to be as beautiful and brilliant as her father, but that would be another lie._

_I was in my sixth month when the stress of my situation killed her._  
_She never got to take even a part of a breath._

_I am so, so sorry, my dearest heart._

_A part of me had hoped that we might meet again and try to start our family once more, but it would seem that the Underworld has other plans for us._

_Thus, do I give you this parting gift, that you will always know how very much I love you._

_Hades, I give you the gift of my protection. Hydaelyn has agreed that she will not touch you when she finishes this war with Zodiark. I pray you use it well._

_I have faith that this is not our final parting, my love. We will embrace one another again someday, even if I have to destroy Hydaelyn and Zodiark myself._

_I pray that you can one day find it in your heart to forgive me, dearest Hades, true song and light of my life and heart. I love you more than there are stars in the nighttime sky, my Dark God._

_Eternally yours,_  
_Melinoia, Azem of the Convocation of Fourteen of Amaurot_


	15. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be just cute fluff. Then I listened to "Howl" by Florence + the Machine, aka my go-to smut music. This is the result. Chapter rated E!
> 
> My take on "Some Days Later"   
> *waggles eyebrows*

The ache in her legs is nothing compared to the anxious, excited ache in her chest that has nothing to do with her burning lungs as she runs at full tilt from Revenant’s Toll to the Tower.

It gleams ahead of her, a column of pale blue faerie dust splitting the dusky twilight sky of Mor Dhona. Some of that magic seems to rub off on her, spurring her feet on impossibly faster. She leaps over rocks and divots in the road, fairly flying toward her goal.

Toward Raha.

Khione’s gown is coated in dust and no small amount of sweat by the time she reaches the grand, gilded doors of the Syrcus Tower. For a brief, fleeting moment, she worries about the state of her hair and appearance, but the warmth of Azem’s crystal in one hand, and the gentle glow of G’raha’s soul vessel in the other, is a soothing balm to her flustered, fluttering heart.

The sorceress takes half a minute to calm her tangled curls and acknowledge the mighty doors, praying that they open for her.

She takes off running once more the minute they do. Fling wide the gates indeed.

The stairs to the top feel endless, her impatience growing with every level she climbs until at last she reaches the Ocular, bursts through its familiar yet unfamiliar doors. With her goal so close, the doors to the Umbilicus are no match for the strength of her magic — he had warned her that he’d locked himself in, though she has no doubt that he will later chide her for using black magic to destroy any part of the ancient structure _when_ he awakes, because she is certain this will work. It had to work. She will accept no other result.

Her heart falters as she gazes upon his sleeping form. It is so strange to see him hale and whole and completely Spoken. His carmine hair is unbound, splayed across a pillow like the rays of the sun rising above the horizon; and the lines of his face are so soft and gentle, unlined by the stress of many centuries and impending death. She _almost_ hates the thought of waking him, but the thought of holding him and feeling the warmth of his lips on her skin and hearing the honeyed rumbling of his voice as he speaks her name spurs her on as she kneels beside his prone form. She lays the crystal upon his chest. And. Waits.

It is the longest minute of her life.

Just when her hope begins to falter, G’raha stirs. Khione watches him like a hawk.

“Huhnnnh?” He slowly sits up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He looks around, stopping when he spies Khione waiting with bated breath.

“Did it work?” He finally murmurs.

Khione pounces with an excited shriek and they lay together as a tangle of limbs and joy for a moment before he sits up with her cradled in his lap. She nearly melts in relief when warm, strong arms that smell of cinnamon and cedar and sandalwood and ancient parchment and misty nights in a faraway land wrap around her, crushing her tight against against his chest that feels like home and an answered prayer.

G’raha purrs as he buries his face in Khione’s hair, and she smiles so widely that her cheeks begin to ache immediately, but she is just so happy to be able to hold him and be held by him without any crystal guarding his skin or the hum of an ancient Tower distracting his mind from the here and now, from her.

Khione does not realise she is crying until G’raha leans down to kiss each individual tear of diamond-brilliant joy from her cheeks before slanting his mouth over hers in a starving, desperate kiss that is relief and love and passion and fire all in one.

Suddenly, her clothing feels too tight, too stifling, because she _needs_ to feel every inch of his fair, freckled skin, needs to reacquaint herself with every ilm of him, and by the way his hands twitch at the back laces of her storm blue gown, she knows he reciprocates her sentiments. It is all she can do to refrain from actually _tearing_ his clothing off of him.

It is not the first time they have lain together. It is not even the tenth. After Emet-Selch’s defeat, Khione spent much of the rest of her nights in Norvrandt in G’raha’s arms, the two of them finding new and increasingly creative ways to make each other orgasm so hard, they were both seeing stars.

But it feels like the first time, and it is an intoxicating rush of pure need as their mouths collide and their fingers scramble to undo all of the damnable layers they both wear, and Khione is wound so tight already that she comes on G’raha’s finger before he even fully inserts it because the satisfied hiss he makes at finding how wet she is sends her mind into a flurry of white hot desire, and though she is a proud woman, she _begs_ him to finger fuck her because she is smart enough to know that she needs preparation before she can take him.

G’raha does not disappoint. By now, he has learned exactly how to make her sing like a soprano in an opera, and he is unafraid of putting that knowledge to use as he lays her out beneath him. He kisses his way down her body with a reverence that breaks her heart, and fills her with three of his fingers, hooking them to stroke her g-spot while his silver tongue and gleaming fangs work at her clit. Khione can only tug helplessly at his fiery hair, a string of mewled curses falling from her lips as she comes undone for a second time. Still, her body needs more, more, _more_ of him.

Her lover smirks at her with impish mischief in his scarlet eyes, tracing his index finger — covered in her juices — across her lip. She takes all three fingers in her mouth, sucking greedily before she pulls him down for another kiss.

“Want you _now_ ,” G’raha snarls, and Khione fears she might turn to jelly at the pure command in his voice, the way his eyes burn with flame as he bites one of her nipples hard enough to make her almost jump out of her skin.

“By the Fury, **_please_** ,” she begs without an onze of shame.

Khione weeps in blissful relief when G’raha buries himself in her. He turns his attention to her breasts, kneading and sucking and nipping and pinching, while he sets a pace with his hips that’s so agonisingly slow, Khione wonders if he intends to keep her here with him for the next century. She imagines she wouldn’t mind.

She muffles her moans and wails by sucking marks on every bit of G’raha’s skin that she can, claiming and possessive — she wanted the entire star to know that G’raha Tia was _hers_ , Halone help her, and she would not tolerate any who dare try to make a move on him.

Their souls intertwine as their bodies collide. G’raha’s is warm and gentle and so full of love and hope and excitement that the jagged edges of Khione’s own soul disappear, replaced by G’raha’s radiance. He is hers and she is his, and she cannot imagine life any other way. Not anymore.

G’raha speeds up, his thrusts becoming more forceful and frantic the closer they both get to the edge. He captures her lips as they leap over the falls together, stars dancing in their eyes at the force of their shared climax.

It is many moments before either of them is capable of coherent thought or speech. They grin at each other like mad fools in the interim, glowing with joy and adoration and sweat in the blue crystal light of the Umbilicus.

G’raha gently tucks an errant curl out of Khione’s face and behind her ear, his touch lingering to explore the sharp line of her cheekbone. The next kiss he gives her is so beautifully pure that Khione forgets how to breathe for a moment.

“Welcome home, G’raha Tia,” she finally sniffles, eyes welling with joyful tears once more.  
“’Tis good to be home, my beautiful Khione.”


	16. Lucubration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lucubration: A study or meditation

_All that is gold does not glitter,_

G'raha Tia thinks of Khione as he reads the ancient poetry, thinks of the precious moments between them that he treasures more than all of the Allagan gold in the entirety of the Syrcus Tower. His heart had nearly leapt out of his chest when she laid a warm cup of tea beside him and joined him in his meditation on the words of poets long dead. He feels her sudden absence keenly, and though he tries his hardest to return his focus to the book of poems open before him, he returns over and over to the sorceress. Perhaps it is a sign that he should indulge himself in a meditation on _her_.

_Not all those who wander are lost;_

For as long as G'raha has known Khione, she has been something beautiful, ephemeral, a brilliant dream that he so desperately wishes to chase, for how could he ever become lost so long as he follows in her wandering footsteps? He smiles beneath his heavy hood, thinking back on the summer they spent together exploring the Tower. She was so proud and yet so scared; and he was so eager to catch her eye, to impress her, to win her heart. So much of that summer is little more than a fever dream to him, a mosaic of shy smiles and secret touches and sacred passion, discovering the first sparks of youthful affection and attraction, only to be rent asunder by the wheel of fate and fortune.

_The old that is strong does not wither,_

He has often heard it said that 'distance makes the heart grow fonder.' Growing up, he believed it a silly thing that mothers tell their children to help ease the pain of parents going off to war, but his entire world turned upside-down the day he saw Khione — brilliant, powerful, refulgent Khione — standing at the Exarch Gate. A blush creeps, scalding and prickly, from his shadowed cheeks up to the tips of his hidden ears, as he allows himself to remember the way her leather leggings showed off legs that hadn't been nearly so toned when last he'd appreciated them; the way her coat was tailored to accentuate her not-ungenerous breasts and the taper of her delicate waist; the sharp, birdlike features of her face that he had memorised during that halcyon summer, that had haunted his dreams for _centuries_. His heart threatens to leap out of his chest at the memory of some of the more colourful thoughts that flitted through his mind that day.

_Deep roots are not reached by the frost._

G'raha is no fool, though. He has seen the coldness in her eyes that was not there before. He has read of her adventures after they parted, but seeing the mark left upon her soul by countless losses and battles is a new sort of pain that makes him feel like his heart is bleeding. He would do anything to melt the ice that now guards her heart, because he knows, deep down, there is still a warmth to her. He has glanced it in quiet moments like earlier, when they had leaned so close together that he could smell the arousal on her, the quiet, secret desperation that he knew she was far too proud to acknowledge. He wishes he did not have to hide his identity. He wishes he could scoop her into his arms like he once did, lead her in dances around a campfire, sing old folk songs with her before leading her back to his tent to make her sing a different tune for the rest of the night.

He decides to bring the book of poetry back to his quarters for company. It is late and he is tired and so very lonely without the comforting pressure of Khione's presence. The Tower is a poor substitute for the Warrior who does not even realise how truly beloved she is to him, but it will have to do.

_From the ashes a fire shall be woken,_

_A light from the shadows shall spring;_

_Renewed shall be blade that was broken,_

_The crownless again shall be king._

Perhaps, he muses to himself, he will take a chance and kiss her at the very least, next time. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A continuation of today's chapter of 'refulgence' (Lucubration) by thepapernautilus. 
> 
> The poem is from Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien. 
> 
> Come join us in Book Club! https://discord.gg/cfKRtTk


	17. Fade

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Now darkness has come to the roses, the fire is reaching the end..."
> 
> Everyone else in Book Club is doing angst. I felt like having Khione blow things up and protecting her cute cat boyfriend. This is just me imagining some sort of cool scene. No real place in any canon. *shrug*
> 
> Warning: Violence, explosions, Khione is having way too much fun setting Garleans on fire.

_Now darkness has come to the roses, the fire is reaching the end; the colours that I have created are suddenly flying away..._

Khione stands alone atop a hill before the Garlean host. It is consuming shadow scarring the land, a dark fire turning all in its path to ashes and shattered hope. The field in which they stand, once covered in a painter's dream of jewel-toned wildflowers and lush emerald grass, is a barren waste of faded colours. Khione intends to make them pay.

_I'm not fighting myself, will not follow, 'cause my choices are mine, it's my fate; and I'll never bow down from the sorrow, I'll face all that is coming my way!_

She was not originally planning to face the massive army alone.... Then they tried to assassinate G'raha to obtain a means of getting into the Tower. The Scions, the Eorzean leaders, and even G'raha himself had all begged her not to rush into this confrontation, and certainly not all by herself. They did not factor in the fact that the Warrior of Light is her own woman, an army unto herself, fully capable of making her own choices and deciding her own destiny. She has faced worse odds than this before and left naught but devastation in her wake. Grief and sorrow and anger are her constant companions, and she has learned to weaponise them in much the same way her foe wields guns and armour. She refuses to bow before any of it, before any of them.

_Denying the devil of silence; embracing the world on the edge...._

The air itself grows quiet, a collective inhale as the armies of her allies wait and watch, watch and wait. She grins with a smirk so wicked, she wonders if perhaps she has become mischievous rage incarnate.

_Let us burn, let us burn and light up the skies here tonight! Let us burn, let us burn in this fire that makes us yearn. Woah, we're fighting our fear of the silence, we're running through walls where they stand. Let us burn, let us burn, let us burn._

Khione doubts the Garleans expected fire from her. Ice has danced ever at her fingertips, snow drifting through the strands of her hair in a frosty halo. Not this night. This night, she unleashes flames that are dazzling in their raw fury, blazing in a multitude of iridescent colours that turn night into day as they descend upon the gathered army. Ice would be too merciful for the would-be invaders. Khione wants them to _burn_.

The first wave of screaming rises to the heavens, a symphony so sweet, Khione has to fight the urge to dance as she sets off running to the wall of flames and charring flesh.

_I'm searching no more for tomorrow; I'll reach for the skies while I can. The unknown will always be waiting; my last day I'll jump in its hands. I'm not fighting myself, will not follow, 'cause my choices are mine, it's my fate; and I'll never bow down from the sorrow, I'll face all that is coming my way! Denying the devil of silence; embracing the world on the edge...._

She is a living flame, reckless and free, as she casts spell after spell of pure destruction and chaos. In this moment, Khione North does not care what the next sunrise will bring, or even what the next minute will bring. She cares only for the rush of magic as it channels through her body and erupts into the flames of fiery hells, consuming the soldiers and machines who try to oppose her, infernos that reach heavensward at their mistress's behest. If this is to be her final stand, then let it be worthy of song and legend and myth as she dives into the unknown. She is determined to follow her own path, to protect those for whom she cares, but to do so on her own damn terms. Every onze of sorrow in her soul is melted into pure, divine rage and fire. The Garleans do not stand a chance.

_Why? Why don't you let me burn? Why don't you count down and break out and let us burn? Oh why? Why don't you let me burn? Why don't you let me burn? Why don't you let me burn? Oh why? Erasing the demons in my mind! Oh, why am I waiting for change, throwing me to the ground?_

Somewhere far behind her, she hears G'raha screaming for her. She does not know why he seeks to quash her flames, when instead he could join her. 

_Now darkness has come to the roses, the fire is reaching the end....._

The edges of her vision begin to fade, and suddenly, her fire feels out of control. Her head swims and her legs falter and perhaps this truly is where she will burn out and die, she thinks.

_Let us burn! Let us burn, and light up the skies here tonight! Let us burn (let us burn!), let us burn (let us burn!) in this fire that makes us yearn! Woah, we're fighting our fear of the silence! We're running through walls where they stand! Let us burn (let us burn!), let us burn (let us burn!), let us burn~_

Just as she is about to fall to her knees and accept whatever fate has in store for her, a broad, familiar hand grabs her own, and it is like she is reborn as a veritable blizzard blooms at G'raha's command, howling around them. The winds feed Khione's flames, and it is enough to consume what is left of the Garlean host. 

When at last the dust clears, G'raha catches Khione before she can crumple, scooping her into his arms like she is made of fine porcelain. His tenderness is enough to bring her fading consciousness back into focus as he wipes a smudge of soot from her cheek. He is safe. She is alive. Together, their souls burn as One.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song is "Let Us Burn" by Within Temptation, aka this writer's favourite song in the world.


	18. Panglossian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to explore G'raha Tia getting to know Khione's friends in my modern AU fic, We All Have A Hunger. Idk where this fits into the canon of said fic. It just kind of....exists.

S'zala and Zaerise had invited G'raha to have coffee with them. Somehow, he felt more like he was going before a firing squad.

"Oooooooh! That looks yummy!" S'zala chirped, ogling the bubblegum-pink- and cotton candy-blue frappe that Zaerise had ordered. G'raha had to admit that it did look decadent, a frothy, frosty cloud of vibrant colours topped with a mountainous summit peak of whipped cream, studded with little popping pebble candies that he fondly remembered from his childhood. His lightly-sweetened latte seemed plain in comparison. It made for a nice reflection of how he felt, watching the two young women across the table from him.

S'zala's fluffy ice-blue tail swished back and forth like a metronome while she sipped her own, equally sugar-laden dragonfruit fuchsia frappe. Zaerise kept her electric green eyes trained on G'raha, a predator watching for weakened prey. G'raha just fidgeted nervously, one hundred different questions and thoughts pressing at his lips to spill out into the aether, to fill the silence.

"Za-a-a-ae, I think you're torturing him," S'zala finally sighed, nudging her girlfriend with a soft elbow to the ribs.

"He's more than welcome to start conversation whenever he wishes," shrugged Zaerise, chewing thoughtfully on her straw. "You don't have to be scared of asking us things, Raha. Zaza and I just wanted a chance to get to know you."

G'raha sighed, took a large sip of latte, and levelled them both with his gaze. "Very well, then. How did the two of you not notice Khione was having trouble?"

Zaerise actually _smirked_ at him in approval before her expression turned grim and pensive.

S'zala answered first.

"I can't really speak for Zaerise, but I know that I was too wrapped up in myself and my skewed view of the world. I think the word Estinien later used was 'panglossian'? Yeah, that's it. I came from a really sheltered tribe where I was always encouraged to be happy, where pressing someone on perceived sadness and other problems was frowned on. We always just kind of... swept those things under the rug. I'm not proud of it, and I've really made an effort to be more aware of what others are feeling, but yeah."

Zaerise shrugged, her expression unreadable. "Sharing emotions wasn't really a thing for my people growing up. Khione said she was fine. I figured she'd share if she needed to. I was wrong. I've tried to be better about it."

G'raha nodded, then gave a little huffing chuckle. "Well, now that that's out of the way..."


	19. Where The Heart Is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some snippets from Ch. 10 of 'We All Have A Hunger'
> 
> Home is where the heart is, and home is wherever I'm with you.
> 
> Enjoy!

As she often did these days, Khione woke up in a cloud of blissful oblivion that sanded the edges of her jagged emotions from the previous day into smooth clarity and tranquillity.

G’raha snored lightly beside her, still deep in sleep’s gentle embrace. Khione allowed herself a moment to watch him, to appreciate the soft boyishness of his face. One of his ears twitched and flickered as he slept, and Khione had to bite her lip to stifle the fond giggle that tried to bubble out from her. She loved these quiet moments when she could forget the insanity of life, and just focus on appreciating the simpler things like the way her boyfriend purred in his sleep. She’d been worried they were moving too quickly when he invited her to move in with him following Hien’s unannounced arrival, but those worries had disappeared as she and G’raha had fallen into a comforting routine, continuing on with their own individual lives while also learning to share them with the other. The fact that they’d had Starlight Break apart only a moon after that awful day had certainly helped. Khione had returned to Norvrandt City two nights previous, and it was like coming home.

* * *

"Oh, merciless queen of songs and snow," G'raha growled in Khione's ear while one of his hands trailed down her front and under the waistband of her pyjama pants, leaving goose flesh in its wake, "pray allow me to show you the depths of my devotion." His other hand slipped up under her shirt to gently knead the straining, hardened nipple of one of her breasts.

Khione's body hummed with levin, her blood set aflame by the pure, ragged _need_ that laced her lover's voice, that left scalding burns at every point of contact between her heated skin and his. Her focus narrowed to the thick, calloused finger that teased at her entrance, drawing a whimper from her lips because she wanted it inside her _now_.

G'raha, thankfully, understood, and that teasing finger found home.

* * *

Coming home after the first day of classes for the semester had always been one of G'raha's least favourite things about higher education. No matter if he lived in a university dorm or an apartment of his own, the silence at the end of that first day always felt deafening, the walls too close, too protective — barriers caging him in and keeping him from connecting with his peers because he was too damn shy to ever take their invitations to join in on the partying seriously. Who would ever wish to spend an evening with him?

For a moment, he forgot himself, lost in the sinkhole of his insecurities, going through the motions of shedding the day's clothing in favour of comfortable pyjama bottoms and a loose tank top, of unbraiding his long rusty hair in the freedom of his own residence, of setting about making dinner — why were all of his recipes now for two people instead of just one?

No sooner had the thought flitted unbidden through his mind did the front door open, followed by the familiar _click clack_ of heels on the tiled floors getting closer, the gently-hummed notes of a waltz drifting through the apartment. 

Bags were dropped by the room they'd converted into a little office for Khione — she'd nearly gotten a 99 on a final exam instead of a 100 because G'raha had been too busy distracting her the night before said exam, and they'd both realised they needed separate spaces for studying — and then those heels disappeared into the bedroom. 

G'raha was left once more with the silence of his own thoughts, and the gloom that accompanied them threatened to suffocate him while he tried to remember how to properly mince garlic.

So wrapped up in the fog of insecurity and solitude was he that he failed to notice when the scent of Khione's shampoo wafted out of the bathroom, or the near-silent whisper of sock-covered feet moving toward him until a dancer's strong arms wrapped around his middle, and soft lips pressed a kiss to his exposed shoulder.

"Honey," Khione's teasing voice lilted, laced with laughter and love, "I'm home~"


	20. Garter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was makeup day. I spent it writing smut. Here's a sample.

She is stunning. 

He is stunned.

Khione has been stunning throughout the entire day, and rightfully so. G’raha had wept like a babe when he beheld her striding confidently down the aisle, radiant in a flowing gown of palest silver-blue silk. She had reminded him of stories of angels wreathed in beauty and crowned in glory. The intricate lace of her long, tight sleeves had seemed spun from opalescent silk — no doubt a gift from the people of The Crystarium, something new — and the cathedral-length train of her gown fanned and trailed behind her in a cloud of whispering, rippling fabric that made her seem like she was floating. From what she had told him, the body of the dress had been made from the silk of her mother’s own wedding gown — something old. Atop her gently curling midnight tresses, a kokoshnik tiara glimmered and sparkled like a million stars — on loan from the Holy See of Ishgard, something borrowed. At her throat, diamond choker G’raha had given her specifically for this very day glittered with every breath she took. 

G’raha had been a nervous, excited mess through the entire ceremony, a part of him always wondering if this was just another dream until the moment they were pronounced eternally bonded, man and wife.

Waiting for the reception was torture because it was the only thing standing between G’raha, Khione, and a much-needed vacation to The Crystarium — G’raha would forever be grateful that they had finally figured out cross-rift travel.

G’raha had thought earlier that his heart couldn’t be so full, so overflowing with nervous excitement and brilliant, refulgent love for Khione. He hadn’t even considered the lust aspect of this day.

He really should have.

Khione had changed from her regal, ice-blue silk confection of a gown trimmed with delicate lace and glittering diamonds; into a dress of midnight velvet that drapes and drips from her generous curves like a waterfall guarded by a vicious siren, parting for the pale, toned column of one of her legs. His mouth waters at the sight, eyes focusing in on the prize of the frothy silk lace garter that marks an inky interruption at her thigh, and he can feel the hungry, feral part of himself snarl and claw at his self-control. Just a little longer, he tells himself, and then she is all his and he can ravage her for the rest of eternity if she permits him.

G’raha forgets how to think as all the blood rushes from his brain to his head far south. His gaze sweeps away from that wickedly taunting leg, languishing over the suggestive curves of her hips hugged by the dark blue fabric, up the length of her torso to savour the fullness of her breasts that are slightly rosy with a blush that continues up the delicate line of her throat to paint her high cheekbones with vivid colour.

G’raha forgets how to breathe as he takes in her face. He knows every ilm of her, has memorised the sharp lines and gentle curves of her face. He has seen her at her very worst: one breath away from turning into a true monster, her very soul splintering and shattering as agony twisted her features into something grotesque and horrific, and still he loved her with every onze of his being.

To G’raha, Khione has always been stunning, striking, without equal.

Now, she is devastating in the best of ways, and he wants nothing more than to fall before her and _weep_ for the flood of emotions and unfiltered _hunger_ that crashes through him when scarlet eyes brimming with tears of joy meet eyes of starlight silver. 

G’raha forces himself to kneel slowly, to remember to breathe and think properly because all of their friends are watching and Gods damn it all, he would give his very soul just to be able to sink himself to the hilt inside of her and never leave, but he doesn’t because he wants this torture to continue, so that when at last they have cloistered themselves away from the rest of the world, their joining will be the sweetest symphony he has ever heard, a lightning storm over roiling oceans, the howling of a maelstrom that threatens to set the world aflame.

Khione smiles down at him; at once a cruel, wicked goddess tempting him to sin and oblivion with the temple of her scar-flecked body; and a holy angel granting him succour and peace.

It occurs to him then that this magnificent creature, she who has slain gods and ancients and all manner of fell beast, is his _wife._ His _mate_. 

The flame in his blood, in his loins, is set anew, as he runs his nose along the delicate, lean muscle of her inner thigh. He slides both hands up the back of her leg, and he presses teasingly chaste kisses along the sensitive skin, working his way down to the garter. From the way Khione has tensed, he can tell that she’s burning up inside just as much as he is, and the feral beast roars. The situation is not aided by the potency of the arousal his sensitive nose can smell this close to the warm, wet darkness between her legs.

Finally, G’raha takes the lacy band between his teeth and _slowly_ drags it down Khione’s leg, his hands following at an equally teasing pace.

The gathered audience erupts into applause when the bride steps out of the garter. To everyone’s amusement, it is Alphinaud who catches it when G’raha sends it flying into the crowd. Ryne catches the bouquet. Both are flustered and promise never to speak of the occurrence ever again.


	21. Foible

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> CW: Lover's quarrel, some blood.

G’raha would hardly call Khione’s unyielding stubbornness merely a quirky foible.

It is, of course, a large factor in her continued survival, given her choice of profession. He has read story after story about her adventures, many of which could easily have ended far more tragically were it not for the sheer force of her mulish will and refusal to accept defeat. Hells, he has witnessed the power of said trait time and time again, and it has left him in complete awe.

That was before he began courting her in earnest.

He awoke that morning to find her side of the bed cold and empty, her travelling rucksack, cloak, and staff missing, naught but a note folded neatly on the desk.

_“Garlean movement near The Burn. Gone to investigate. Be back tonight. Alisaie will oversee your training today. Stay safe and BEHAVE. Love, Kiki.”_

G’raha had promptly turned the note to ashes with a grumpy snarl.

He knows, as he paces around the Rising Stones, that Khione is just looking out for him. He knows that she is not leaving him behind with any ill intent. Without the Tower’s aid, his power is an unknown entity to her, and one in which her heart is deeply invested, no less.

He cannot prove his worth to her if she doesn’t let him, though.

Crisp autumn midday turns to chilly early evening, and G’raha grows angrier and more anxious. Even when Khione has to teleport between Revenant’s Toll and the Far East, it does not take her this long. G’raha has turned into a gale of bitter abandonment and insecurity by the time the door from the Toll opens.

Opens is perhaps too light a word.

Thancred kicks down the door and ushers in a dark, straggling form through. G’raha’s heart ignites to tempestuous flame when he scents the familiar smell of Khione’s _blood_.

He has exactly half a minute to react, to open the door to the living quarters so Thancred can guide the obviously-wounded Warrior to her room before she passes out. His heart clenches with something like territorial jealousy as he watches the gunbreaker lift her tiny, trembling form to place her with tender care on the bed. 

“What happened?” he snarls, fisting his hands in the red fabric of his vest to keep from grabbing the other man by the shoulders to bodily throw him out of the room. He is at her side in two strides, peeling back the layers of her cloak to assess the damage. 

Thancred gives G’raha a look of pure grim pity, wincing with every inhale. G’raha does not care, not when he is already raging and volatile, not when the woman he loves is staining her bedclothes with blood, blooming crimson on the soft white duvet. Not when her blood paints the tips of his fingers as red as his eyes when he finds the spot in her side where she was _stabbed_ with something large and sharp.

“It was a trap,” Thancred spits, beginning the process of bandaging his own wounds. “We were ambushed. She told the rest of us to fall back, wouldn’t let us help her. One of their magitek constructs managed to break through her shield.”

That explains the severity of the wound.

G’raha says no more, turning to focus on knitting his beloved _inspiration_ — the word is ash and sawdust in his mind, paltry and foolish and naive in the face of his levin-charged anger. He hears Thancred leave, but makes no move to bid the man thanks for bringing Khione back.

Hours pass, and G’raha’s mood only worsens, even as Khione’s condition improves under his watchful gaze and steadfast ministrations.

By the time the sorceress wakes around sunrise, G’raha’s control over his temper is brittle at best.

Her groan is quiet, shaky, but it is enough to snap him out of his dozing state.

“Raha?” Khione murmurs, moon silver eyes fluttering open slowly. The colour in her face has mostly returned, and it eases the raging storm in G’raha’s chest only a little.

“It’s about damn time,” he huffs. No small amount of satisfaction zings through him at the genuinely _wounded_ look that flickers to life on Khione’s face. 

“How did I…? What happened?”

Her voice, normally so strong and cold like the mighty walls of Ishgard, is small and wary and pale.

“I wouldn’t know, Warrior of Darkness,” he growls, slipping into the cold, detached aspect of the Crystal Exarch. He stands in what Khione once called his power stance: Feet set shoulder-width apart, shoulders squared, back straight, ears at attention, one arm hanging by his side, the other gripping his staff with regal strength. 

Khione, the frost-kissed goddess of his heart, saviour of worlds, champion of Hydaelyn, _whimpers._

“Raha…. What’s wrong? Why are you acting like—?”

“Like myself?” he supplies, staring his beloved down with the weight of his soul’s many centuries. “Perhaps it is because I just had to spend the entire night trying to make sure the woman I love survived through the night after she _left_ me with little more than a note and Alisaie’s piss-poor company to run headlong into yet another fight. Perhaps it is because I am tired of being left to practice drill after drill, to run laps around Mor Dhona, to bury my worries and insecurities in books that I’ve read fifty times over, when I could instead be fighting _by your side_ and being of actual use, rather than being treated like some sort of trophy.”

Khione frowns, confused, and moves to stand slowly. G’raha takes two steps back when she stumbles one step toward him.

“Raha, come here,” she sighs. “Come sit on the bed with me and we can talk.”

G’raha grits his teeth and bares them at her, narrowing his eyes. “That’s all we _ever_ do, Khione. We have had this conversation before, and I have explained to you many times that I’m perfectly capable of standing by you in battle. I’m tired of _talking_ when it seems that you aren’t _listening_ , so instead, _I’m_ going to talk, and you’re going to actually listen for once.”

Khione makes a little sound somewhere between hurt and irritation, standing frozen by the bed.

“I realise that you have long relied only on yourself,” G’raha continues, separating his racing heart from the furious fire of his mind. “It is part of what I love about you, Khione; but we are a _pair_ now by **your own admission** , yet your actions do not measure up to your words, because I suspect your _pride_ will not allow you to fully trust me.”

The temperature in the room seems to drop dramatically, and G’raha is not sure which one of them is doing it.

“Are you serious about _us_ , or am I just a toy for you to enjoy and grow bored with?”

The words spill over his lips, an avalanche of insecurity and spite and something unspeakably bitter, before he has a chance to regret the mere thought.

“What did you say?” 

It only then occurs to G’raha that perhaps his anger has gotten the better of him, that perhaps he has taken things too far.

Khione whirls on him as fast as her injured state will allow; eyes like shooting stars and howling blizzards narrow, challenging him to repeat his question. G’raha, stupidly, takes the bait.

“I dare say you heard me, dear Warrior,” he hisses, prowling closer with predatory grace. “Am I your partner, as you so claim me to be; or am I your plaything, good only for warming your bed and keeping you satisfied when the world leaves you feeling empty?”

If G’raha is a raging wildfire, burning so hot that he feels his skin freezing, then Khione is a howling snowstorm, the cold of her mind leaving her heart burnt and bitten with ice. She shows him no mercy.

“How _dare_ you accuse me of such frivolities,” she bites, closing the space between them on adrenaline-strengthened legs. “How _dare_ you doubt the truths which I have shared with you when I have done _nothing_ but act to support every claim and promise I have _ever_ made to you.”

He scoffs, crossing his arms and looking _down_ at her. 

“By leaving me on this glorified shelf like I am some naughty child being punished for loving you, for wishing to stand with you, to protect you? Your definition of truth is laughable, and so, apparently, is your definition of _love_.”

The noise Khione makes is akin to a banshee’s shriek. The candles illuminating the room flicker.

“Do not presume to speak to me of _love_ , oh mighty Crystal Exarch. Need I remind you that it was _you_ who put me and my friends in jeopardy time and again? That it was _you_ who bade me to go hither and thither, to fight many myriad monster, to put my life on the line without even showing me your face? Or perhaps I should mention the way you allowed me to nearly destroy myself, only to then presume that I did not care for your life just as I did my own? _You_ , who have time and again thrust me into danger, who _forced_ me to trust you without ever showing me even the slightest bit of personal trust yourself? You, who claim to love me more than anything in this universe, would make a mockery of my feelings when I actually _reciprocate_ yours?”

G’raha cannot tell whether he wishes to kiss her or throttle her, or perhaps both, but Khione does not give him a chance, not now that he has awoken the full fury of the Fury’s Handmaiden.

“Have you _ever_ considered _why_ I refuse to let you accompany me if I have a choice? Have you _ever_ asked yourself why I, who would have willingly continued holding onto the light of the Wardens if it meant being able to keep _you_ , leave you here to train and learn while I throw myself into danger?”

G’raha’s mind draws a blank, his ears flattening against his head. Oh, he has really fucked up now, and it is more sobering than an ice bath.

Khione tilts her head slightly, her lips curling into a furious, manic smirk. “No answer? I find myself unsurprised, considering you can’t seem to pull your own head out of your insecure ass long enough to realise that perhaps I have a reason for leaving you here. However, I can’t stand to look at you for another moment more, so I believe we’re done here.”

And then she is gone in a limping flurry of skirts and cloak and patches of frost coating the floor around where she stood.

G’raha stands there, stunned, for a moment, his mind desperately trying to catch up. He nearly startles out of his skin when Y’shtola pats him on the shoulder in a less-than sympathetic way.

“That was rather impressive,” she sighs, giving him a knowing, disapproving smirk. “Did you intend for her to leave in tears while she’s still in need of some stitches? If so, you did a _very_ fine job of it.”

G’raha feels his blood freeze and his heart stop, shame overtaking the anger already cooling in his veins. Oh, Gods, what has he done?

“I-I just…. I….”

“Did you really not know that she’s been trying to protect you this entire time?” Thancred snorts, sounding every bit like the worried older brother Khione has often referred to him as. “I dare say Khione would sooner let this entire world burn than see you hurt, G’raha Tia. You, my friend, have messed up _royally_.”

It is Urianger, though, who really puts the final nail in the coffin.

"Thou cannst not choose which of thy lover's pieces to cherish and keep."


	22. Argy-Bargy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 1 of ? in the rabbit hole of G'raha's memories. I have much more written, but it was getting to be too long for a single fill, so I'm splitting it up.

The bed is too big and too cold without Khione in it, curled up tight against G’raha’s side like she’s doing her best to melt into him. The silence that fills the room — deafening, oppressive, taunting — makes him hyper-aware of the lingering scent of her perfume and shampoo on the pillows, the chill seeping in through the still-open window, the absence of her steady heartbeat and breathing. His guilt and his heartbreak seem to be having something of a minor tiff.

Her furious words still clamour through his head, a horrible, hateful mantra that rings with hideous truth: _“Do not presume to speak to me of **love** , oh mighty Crystal Exarch. Need I remind you that it was **you** who put me and my friends in jeopardy time and again? That it was **you** who bade me to go hither and thither, to fight many myriad monster, to put my life on the line without even showing me your face? Or perhaps I should mention the way you allowed me to nearly destroy myself, only to then presume that I did not care for your life just as I did my own? **You** , who have time and again thrust me into danger, who **forced** me to trust you without ever showing me even the slightest bit of personal trust yourself? You, who claim to love me more than anything in this universe, would make a mockery of my feelings when I actually **reciprocate** yours?”_

G’raha groans, raising his right arm to stare at the spoken skin. Not even a few moons ago, it had been blue crystal marred by long gouges from Cailleach’s passion, a testament to the very love he so stupidly questioned the night previous. He allows his arm to drop to cover his eyes with the back of his forearm.

How could he have been so, _utterly_ blind? After everything they have been through together, how in the seven hells could he have doubted her sincerity?

G’raha closes his eyes and thinks back on the last night they spent together on the shores of Silvertear before he locked himself in the Tower.

_Khione stood alone, looking out over the still waters, moon-silver eyes fixed upon the glowing column of the Tower as though she might convince it to yield its many secrets, to yield their lost companions, if she simply stared long and hard enough. For a moment, G’raha stood back, watching her, memorizing the way her coat was slightly too big for her diminutive frame, the way the breeze off the lake played in the shoulder-length waves of her hair, the way her hands were empty and begging to be held. He nodded to himself and closed the gap, gently taking her hand._

_“Tis a sight I doubt I’ll ever tire of,” he hummed, tail swaying with casual ease despite the wild racing of his heart._

_Khione turned her head up to face him, her smile wobbly and worried and fond. “I wish I could agree with you,” she murmured, and G’raha’s heart jumped to his throat when she shifted closer, the distance between them far too small to be casual or platonic. G’raha let go of her hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side. It was the most natural thing in the world._

_“But? I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming,” he teased. Khione nodded and rested her head against his shoulder._

_“I have a bad feeling about tomorrow. Something wicked is waiting for us in that blasted realm, and I cannot shake the impending feeling of_ loss _that’s haunting me.”_

_He frowned, examining her face for any further hints as to her thoughts, but as usual, the young black mage’s expression was careful and guarded._

_The desire to distract her, to comfort her, and to get answers to his own burning questions overtook his common sense._

_“Khione,” he murmured, reaching over to tilt her chin up towards him as he bent down slightly to meet her eyes. They were so close that he realised that her eyes were flecked with bits of brass and gold, like shooting stars crossing the moon’s path. “May I kiss you?”_

_Khione blinked once, twice, and then broke into a brilliant grin, nodding enthusiastically. “Oh gods, yes.”_

_The kiss had lasted for only a few ephemeral moments, and it left him wanting so much more; it felt like a switch had been flipped somewhere deep in his heart, and suddenly his entire heart belonged to her. It almost validated all of the lonely nights he’d spent over the past few moons, thinking of her wry, quiet smirk and the way firelight danced in her eyes to clash with the Coerthan winter of her soul whenever she giggled. He felt no shame over the fact that many of those nights had seen him taking himself in hand to those thoughts, dreaming of the mage sleeping in the tent next to his._

At the time, G’raha had not realised until the next day that the loss Khione had foreseen…was his.

_G’raha stood before the other members of NOAH, his own words bitter and strong as the coffee Khione’s lips had tasted of the night before, as they left his mouth. He found that he could not meet the intensity of those eyes like winter comets. He had expected her to try to convince him otherwise, to challenge his course of action. Instead, she held her head high, proud, powerful, and he could see glimmers of the woman she was already becoming, the bringer of hope and light and beauty. It did not stop his heart from breaking as he closed the doors and turned away from her brilliance, nor did it stop the tears that flowed freely at the thought that he would most likely never see her again. How was it that, in the space of such a short time, he had fallen rather in love with a woman destined for far greater things than a Baldesion scholar?_

His mind next turns to the day he was awoken.

_G’raha had dreamt of many things: Of the life he might have had alongside a petite woman with silver eyes and a bird-like countenance, whose very presence was a balm to the soul; of ancient kings and dark clouds; of the future that yet awaited him when mankind was far more advanced and ready to accept the full glory of Allag._

_The world he stepped out into was a hellscape._

_The Eighth Umbral Calamity. Black Rose._

_…Khione was dead. Had been dead a very long time. Had been killed by the heinous poison unleashed by the Garleans, only a few years after he had shared that single, fleeting kiss with her on the shores of Silvertear._

_When he realised that there was a chance to save her, he leapt at it, no matter how improbable the odds seemed._

The trip to Ishgard, in particular, stands out in his mind as the final push his resolve needed to go through with the madman’s gamble he and the remaining members of Garlond Ironworks had been planning.

_G’raha had never visited Ishgard, yet he knew it like he knew his own mind. He’d spent many moons listening to Khione speak of her beloved home, describing it in detail for him. When at last he got the chance to see it for himself, his feet moved of their own accord to the skeletal remains of a row of manor houses._

_As if protected by some sort of magic, the last house on the row, a proud, stately place built of pure white stone, still stood untouched by the decimation._

_G’raha did not hesitate to enter, knowing the inhabitants to be long-dead, even though the interior still looked lived-in._

_Up the stairs, to the left, down at the end of the hall, exactly as that wide-eyed sorceress had told him._

_The Warrior of Light’s sacred haven, and now the home of the last remaining portrait of Khione North._

_The painting still looked new. Khione sat, her lower half turned towards a table, as though the artist had caught her in the midst of writing a letter or reading a book._

_Her raven-blue hair curled gently to frame her sharp, elegant face, cascading down her back, exposed by the frothy white silk and satin gown she wore. Her pale, freckled shoulders peeked out from beneath the tumbling ocean of hair, bared by the off-shoulder sleeves of her garments._

_It was the eyes that brought G’raha to his knees. Stunning, striking, moon-siler eyes flecked with bits of gold and bronze._

_G’raha wept._

_He took the portrait with him, stashed it away in a hidden corner of the Umbilicus. Throughout his time on The First, as he prepared to summon the Warrior, he found himself sneaking peeks at it, as though reassuring himself that he **would** see her again soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: "argy-bargy" is British slang for a noisy tiff/argument/quarrel. This fill only vaguely relates. Oh well.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> The real crunch is coming, I promise.


	23. Shuffle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was very tempted to make this about the Scions doing the Cupid Shuffle.

_It only took him a few tries._

_G’raha did not know if his heart could take another disappointment. Perhaps his failed tries were a sign that this summoning was not to be._

_No. He could not accept defeat, not when the fate of two stars depended on him. Not when **she** depended on him._

_It had taken all his self-control, when at last she accepted his voice in her head and entered freely into that realm between realms, not to throw his hood back then and there, and take her into his arms for another too-fleeting kiss. There was work to be done, and he had to remind himself that she could never know._

_He sensed the moment she stepped onto The First in the middle of the cloying beauty of the Forest of the Lost Shepherd. Damn his aging body, the Tower’s hold over him, for he could not run fast enough to the Exarch Gate._

_Thank the Twelve she was clothed. His control surely would have snapped had she been as bare as the others._

_For all the years he’d spent preparing for this moment, perfecting the regal, self-assured swagger of the Crystal Exarch, G’raha nearly forgot how to form basic words when he laid eyes on Khione._

_Though she was only a few years older than she’d been when last he’d seen her, Khione looked like she was the one who’d weathered centuries — not in physical appearance, but in the smaller details: Her eyes were harder, sharper, more guarded, narrowed at him in simmering, quiet rage mixed with wary confusion. Her hair, which she’d always insisted on wearing down back during those beautiful days combing through the Tower’s secrets, was now braided in an elegant coronet meant for practicality. It emphasised the razor’s edge of her cheekbones, the sharp crook of her nose, made her look like a bird of prey. He, no doubt, was said prey._

_It was her countenance, though, that had changed most. The Khione he had known had been freshly minted, still carrying youthful insecurities and wide-eyed curiosity inherent in all new adventurers. A girl carrying a black mage’s staff with only vague notions of how to use it._

_The Khione that stood before him outside The Crystarium was a force of nature, down to the garments she wore. Gone were her sinfully short shorts and overlarge coat, replaced by a long, flowing skirt of dark blue beneath an Eastern robe that reminded him of the grey-blue colour of a dawning sky. Her gloves ended in lethal talons, and glittering rings of magic stones sat atop delicate fingers. Her face, like his, was shadowed by the brim of her hat, and she mirrored his pose with her own staff, a wicked, dark thing crowned by a pair of dragon’s wings crafted from iridescent inky metal. In the years since he’d broken her heart and locked himself inside that damned Tower, she had become a full-blown sorceress._

The scene in his mind shifts again. He resigns himself to this marching of memory, this torture of reminiscing about the evolution of their relationship.

_How apt that things had begun to change after Holminster **Switch**. As with everything about Khione, he noticed it in the smaller details._

_The set of her shoulders relaxed just a fraction, the frown she wore when she looked at him softened. G’raha had spent the entire expedition with NOAH memorising Khione’s little tells, knowledge he put to great use in those first few moons on The First._

_One quiet, lovely twilight stood out to him, a chance meeting in a lonely corner of The Catenaries._

_The Crystal Exarch had been taking his usual evening walk around The Crystarium, chatting with its citizens and simply enjoying a few moments of peace before returning to the Tower for his nightly vigil._

_Perhaps it had been the achingly familiar scent of roses and blackcurrants that drew him up the winding stairs of The Pendants and to the little study room._

_Khione was curled up on the cushioned window seat, nose buried in a time-worn novel while the moon itself and the Crystal Tower softly glowed behind her in an angel’s halo of silver and blue light. She didn’t seem to notice his presence, and it almost pained him to disturb her moment of stolen peace._

_She looked up just as he turned to leave, and though he knew that his identity remained in shadow beneath the heavy curtain of his hood, her eyes, disks of pure moonlight filled with a beauty ancient and new, seemed to bore through him, straight to his very heart._

_“Ah, apologies,” he murmured, shuffling a little from foot to foot. “I did not mean—”_

_“Are you planning to continue standing there, just watching me read, or did you wish to come sit? I find I wouldn’t mind the company.”_

_The Crystal Exarch released a sigh of relief he hadn’t even realised he’d been holding in, and he slowly walked over to join her, making sure to sit a respectable distance away despite the yearning in his chest to scoop her into his arms and cradle her close to watch the stars together as they had once upon a dream._

_“I like this spot,” her voice was soft, thoughtful, little more than a whisper that had his ears perking up beneath his hood just to better hear the gentle music of her voice. “It reminds me of a time when I was truly happy. When I—”_

_Her words, like his own fragile, fluttering heart, dangled on a thin silver line that pulled him closer into her orbit, waiting, watching._

_“When you….?”_

_Khione, much to his surprise, blushed, and her smile wobbled into something tender and unsure and youthful._

_“Promise me you won’t laugh?”_

_If he nodded any more enthusiastically, his head would surely break away from his shoulders._

_The Warrior sighed with a little chuckle, turning her face back to look at the Tower superimposed over the moon._

_“There was a boy — well, that’s not a fair description, since I was younger than he was and neither of us were children.” His mind raced and buzzed, and it was an effort of will to keep his own placid smile from breaking into a riotous grin as she continued. “I fell in love with his voice, first. He played a prank on me while I was gathering supplies for our exploration of the Tower, and even before I knew his face, his voice fair **sang** to my very soul. When I finally met him for real and he turned out to be incredibly handsome, I knew that he would end up stealing my heart.”_

_He hung on her every word, some long-forgotten piece of himself howling to be let out, to scream at her ‘It’s me! It’s me!’ Instead, he continued to listen, the picture of perfect — if a little too close — propriety._

_“The moons I spent with him and the rest of the NOAH expedition were everything I had ever dreamt of — the life of a brave adventurer, plumbing the depths of ancient knowledge, fighting nightmare creatures at every turn, falling in love….”_

_Her face turned sad as she fidgeted with a loose thread at the hem of her skirt._

_“And then he was gone. Locked himself in the Tower. After that, I…. I don’t think I ever stopped loving him, but I also stopped loving anyone else. I don’t think I could bear to suffer through that pain again; it was only the unrest back home in Ishgard that coaxed me out of the apathy that he left in his wake.”_

_Before he knew what he was doing, the Crystal Exarch laid his spoken hand on Khione’s bared shoulder. The warmth and familiarity of that beautiful, freckled skin threatened to break his own heart further._

_And then, Khione **snuggled** close to him, her breath like the unsteady flapping of a fledgeling’s wings._

_Damn him, he gave into the urge he’d been fighting since entering the room, and he pulled her against his side, resting his chin atop her head._

_They sat like that for some unknown span of time, and it was G’raha who finally broke the silence._

_“I’m sure that wherever he is, he loves you in return, my friend.”_

_More silence followed, and Khione’s shuddering breaths were replaced by the easy air of sleep. It wasn’t the worst way he’d ever spent a night._

_The boundaries between them blurred and bled like watercolour after that night. They would go about their normal business during the day, little more than two ships passing in the night, only to find solace in one another’s arms with the setting of each golden sun._

_He had cherished every one of those evenings, held them as dear as he held Khione herself._

G'raha sat up and reached over to his bedside table to sip from a cold cup of tea that Tataru had brought up for him earlier. It tasted of disappointment and bitter memory.

At least remembering the first time he and Khione had been intimate would be a far more enjoyable form of self-flagellation than drinking cold, bitter tea.


	24. Beam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promise you that I'm certainly beaming while I'm writing and posting this.
> 
> Rated M for nudity and suggestive comments.

_The Crystal Exarch full-out sprinted to The Pendants in an anxious bustle of robes and worst-case scenarios upon hearing that the Warrior of Darkness was refusing to answer his usual sunrise summons. It was most unlike her to remain in her rooms past the first half-bell following the gentle arrival of the sun’s dawning rays, and with the Light from three Wardens now held in her soul, he couldn’t help but worry to the point of panic._

_Needless to say, he was extremely confused when her voice sounded clear and calm through the door._

_“Who is it~?” she hummed, and his ears flicked beneath his hood at the sounds of rustling and running water._

_“I’ve come to check on you, my friend,” he called, rubbing his arms idly as he waited for her response. He knew not what to expect, only that she had seemed perfectly fine the night before. In fact, she’d seemed content and peaceful, even._

_And then, she opened the door._

_The Warrior of Light and Darkness, Saviour of Eorzea, Champion of Hydaelyn, Liberator of Doma and Ala Mhigo, Sorceress of Ishgard…was wearing a sinfully short, overly-fluffy, candy floss blue bathrobe…and nothing else._

_The Exarch was **very** glad that his face was in shadow, else Khione would have seen the unbridled **hunger** that gleamed in his eyes._

_Twelve bless her, Khione beamed at the Exarch and stood aside to allow him entry. Twelve damn him, the Exarch entered._

_He stood awkwardly by the door, trying not to look too long at the various bits of clothing scattered across the floor; he absolutely didn’t stare at the pair of deliciously lacy smalls discarded by the door to the bathing room._

_“You know you’re allowed to sit down and relax,” Khione chided with a teasing smirk._

_Somehow, he summoned the strength to continue portraying the Crystal Exarch’s eternal state of cool composure, frowning at the sorceress. “I would hate to intrude, my friend. You appear otherwise occupy—”_

_“Nonsense. Sit, sit. We can talk while I bathe.”_

_“But—”_

_“Oh, don’t tell me you’re embarrassed at the thought. A body is a body, and a bath is a bath. When you’ve travelled and camped out as much as I have, you stop caring about such things as modesty between close friends — I am correct in assuming that we fall under such a category, considering the fact that I fall asleep in your arms at least four nights out of seven, yes?”_

_“Well, yes—”_

_“Then sit.”_

_The Exarch obeyed the command without further argument, resting his staff on the side of the table before sitting on one of the cushioned benches. Gods above, the way she swayed her hips as she moved through the suite and into the bathing room was almost more than the Exarch could bear, and he prayed that she wouldn’t look too long at the obvious tenting of his robes which he attempted to cover with the too-casual drape of his crystalline arm across his lap._

_The cruel, wicked witch disrobed in full view of where he sat, and he couldn’t be 100% sure that he wasn’t somehow dreaming all of this._

_His breath grew ragged, and he was impossibly grateful when Khione slipped into the obscuring water of the tub._

_“So, what brings you to my humble abode this morning, Exarch?” she crooned, and he was sure that she was intentionally making a show of lifting one beautiful, lean, pale leg to lather it with soap as slowly and sensually as possible._

_“I-I….” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath through his nose, desperately trying to grasp at his usual detachment. “You told the guard that you would not be coming to speak with me in the Tower this morning. I simply wished to make sure you were quite well.”_

_Her laugh was a harpy’s beautiful cackle, a siren’s shriek, and he would say or do anything to hear it again and again._

_“Well, worry not, dear Exarch, for I am perfectly hale and as whole as I can be with the constant pressure of corrupting Light pressing at the scars in my soul.”_

_“Yes, I can see that, now,” he murmured, even as he relaxed just that tiny bit more, shifting to try to take the edge off of his **very** painful hardness._

_“Then why are you actually here?” she purred as she lathered shampoo through her raven’s-wing blue curls, the white streaks glittering like veins of opal. The Exarch found himself struck dumb, mesmerised, for a moment._

_**‘Because the thought of you so much as stubbing your little toe leaves me feeling panicked and protective,’** G’raha Tia wanted to scream, wanted to slip into the bath with her and whisper between kisses against her Light-mottled skin._

_Instead, the Crystal Exarch smiled, polite, if a little strained._

_“As you so accurately said,” he conceded, staring out the window while she rinsed the soap from her hair, “we are close friends, and I suppose I was happy to take any excuse to be in your company. Though I must ask, why did you refuse my summons to breakfast? Was it not just yesterday that you proudly proclaimed that you quite enjoyed my cooking?”_

_They both turned to smirk at each other at the same time, and for once, it was Khione who blinked first, a tempting blush creeping up her shoulders and cheeks as she rose from the water, quickly wrapping herself in a large, fluffy towel._

_“Touché, my lord Exarch. Touché.”_

_He barely heard her conceit over the rushing of his blood from his head down to his…other head. His brain all but filled with fleece when she began to move back into the main suite, her damned hips swaying again._

_“You are awfully terrible at reading hints and body language, aren’t you, Exarch?” The taunt snapped him from his thoughts, and it suddenly dawned on him that Khione, the little minx, had almost certainly planned this all out._

_He was up, out of his chair, and behind her by the time she stopped in front of the floor-length mirror by her dresser, his hands moving to those delicate, inviting hips right as she dropped the towel. Needless to say, his control was **gone**._

_“I **hoped** , but it would have been wrong of me to **presume**. However, you still haven’t answered my question, my **friend** ,” the words were a low murmuring growl that dripped from his lips pressed against her ear, while the warmth of her body seeped through his robes as he let her **feel** her effect on him, insistent against her backside._

_“Haven’t I?”_

_Oh, she was **brilliant** , he would give her that. All those evenings spent curled up on the window seat together, content in the closeness of an amiable embrace and comfortable silence, she had been **learning** him, **studying** him, slipping into the cracks in the armour of his soul, figuring out exactly where to strike for maximum effect. _

_“It would appear that I’ve played right into your game, Little Sorceress. I suppose I must admit defeat. What, pray tell, would you ask as your prize?”_

_The look in her eyes when she turned to face him was nothing short of predatory, brazen, self-assured; he tightened his grip on her hips, digging the tips of his fingers into the scarred and supple skin he found there._

_“A kiss.”_

_Of course, she asked for one of the few things he knew he **shouldn’t** give her._

_“That’s all? I would’ve expected the Warrior of Darkness to ask for the keys to my kingdom.” He hoped she would fall for his deflection, but he knew her well enough to know that it was a fool’s hope._

_“I mean, I wouldn’t say no if you asked me to be your ‘Lady Exarch,’” she chuckled, tilting her head at a coy angle, looking up at him through long, lowered lashes. “But short of that, I’d quite like for you to kiss me.”_

_G’raha cursed himself for his very distinct inability to say ‘no’ to this tiny, face-meltingly powerful woman; he also cursed himself for how quickly he’d allowed her to decimate his self-control and common sense._

_“I will warn you, my dear Warrior, if I grant you this boon, I may find that I am unable to restrain myself from going further than simply a kiss.”_

_The beaming grin she gave him in response was a thing of feminine, wicked beauty. “I’m counting on it. Now, stop stalling.”_

_Who was he to disobey her?_

_The kiss they had shared all those years ago on the shores of Silvertear had been sweetness and yearning and curiosity and fear of losing one another. This kiss was G’raha’s undoing, pure longing and starvation, two apex predators clashing for dominion and domination, and at this point, he found that he no longer cared if the meeting of their lips, their bodies led to her revelation because this was the answer to every one of his prayers made on lonely nights in a prison made of crystal. He did, however, need to set some rules for the sake of some degree of security, to lay out some form of boundary line that they could not cross — that **he** could not cross._

_“I have but one condition before I ravish you so thoroughly that you forget your own name,” he whispered against lips that tasted of sweetened coffee and nutmeg, his hands roaming the delicate ladder of her ribcage, thumbs teasing at the lower curve of her breasts._

_“Name it, and consider it done,” she hummed, though he could see in her eyes and the way her hands strayed no further than the crystal climbing up both sides of his neck, that she already knew what he was asking of her._

_“I must ask that you allow me to keep my clothing on, I’m afraid. While I am more than happy to share this…whatever this is between us…there are some things that I would rather keep to myself.”_

_The wintry vixen chuckled, pulling him down for another kiss that left him feeling frostbitten and **alive**. “It’s a deal, though really, I assumed you had your cowl spelled in place to ward against any unfortunate accidents or clawing lovers. Now, what was this about ravishing me?”_

_The Crystal Exarch pounced without confirming that she was, in fact, correct; scooping the Warrior into his arms to carry her over to the bed for the sole purpose of splaying her out like a feast beneath him._

_Oh, he was going to enjoy making Khione come undone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I now want a fluffy bathrobe that's candy floss (cotton candy) blue.


	25. Wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> NSFW 18+ PLEASE USE CAUTION
> 
> Sometimes, I wonder if I write "G'raha/Exarch giving Khione oral" too much. Then I realise, "There's no such thing as too much."

_Her body was like a novel of all the battles and hardships she’d faced — the scar shooting from her left shoulder, down across her body to her right hip from her fight with Zenos; the long, pale line across her lower abdomen where a dragon had tried to gut her; claw marks across her thigh from a fight with a particularly nasty coeurl that she’d once told him about. So many stories marking her beautiful star-pale skin._

_He hesitated, frowning, his mind racing with variations on all the possibilities of how this might end. Only a rare few came out in his long-term favour._

_“What is it that you want from me, Warrior of Darkness?” the Exarch mused, peering down at his prey beneath the shadows of his cowl. “You tell me your terms and wishes, and I shall tell you mine so that we may find a compromise that suits both of us.”_

_The way Khione frowned for a moment, then shifted into a sober, thoughtful silence nearly broke his mortal heart, because it was the expression of a woman who had never before been given such autonomy and freedom of choice, whether on the battlefield or in the bedroom._

_“I want you to make me forget — who I am, what I am, what I’ve lost. I want you to make me yours, even if it is just for today. You may do whatever it is that you wish with me — within reason, of course — but I ask that you treat me as someone beloved, with respect and dignity and kindness. Those are my terms.”_

_G’raha nodded, trying to keep his mouth schooled into a predatory smirk so that the Warrior beneath him wouldn’t see the storm of emotions her words had created within him._

_“Consider it done. As for my own terms, I ask that you allow me to blindfold you. I cannot very well treat you fully as my beloved if there is a constant barrier of clothing between us, but I am very adamant about maintaining my anonymity. I also ask that you allow me to bind your hands, for the same reason. Beyond that, if I do anything that makes you uncomfortable, all you have to do is say ‘Rolanberry’ and I will stop immediately.”_

_“That’s all?” Her own smirk had returned, hungry and wicked and teasing, and he couldn’t help but steal a kiss from those taunting lips._

_“I ask that you let me mark you.”_

_“It’s a deal.”_

_It took all of his not-inconsiderable willpower to keep his hands from shaking as he grabbed a thick blue scarf from where it had been discarded atop her rucksack, and tied it over her eyes with expert care. He bound her wrists with glowing ropes of aether, unbreakable yet gentle, and he chuckled when she predictably tried to manoeuvre her way out of them to no avail._

_In all of his years of life, G’raha had never undressed as quickly as he did then, with the woman of his dreams laid out before him, vulnerable and dripping with arousal for **him**. It nearly pained him physically to take things slowly, to savour every moment._

_He started with her lips, slightly parted and his for the taking. His cock throbbed with heavy insistence at the way she moaned when his tongue slipped into her mouth._

_G’raha started with a gentle mark at Khione’s collarbone, laving his tongue over her sweet, humid skin in slow circles. He moved to the peaked, darkened nipple of her left breast, alternating between nibbling and sucking at it while his crystalline hand mimicked the motions as best it could on her right breast. When she whimpered and canted her hips up towards his with impatience, he punished her by sinking his fangs deep into the skin of her breast._

_“Behave,” he snarled, voice laden with masculine possessiveness and dominance that had the Fury’s Handmaiden stilling like a statue. “Good girl.”_

_He continued his journey downwards, kissing every ilm of her scars with terrifying tenderness, only to mark the unmarred skin between those pale streaks of levin with more of those violent bites._

_Khione was positively dripping by the time G’raha’s tongue licked a brazen stripe up the heat of her centre. He nuzzled the patch of wiry dark curls that guarded her clit, breathing in the heady, musky scent of **her** , before plunging his tongue into the inviting darkness, the taste of her fizzing on his tongue like sparks of static that leave him slightly dizzy._

_He hooked her legs over his shoulders, drawing blood with the bites he left on the skin of each milky thigh before moving to focus on suckling at her clit, delighting in the way she bucked her hips and writhed at such a simple action. The moan that escaped her when he filled her with two fingers, crooked to brush against her g-spot, was nothing short of lewdly pathetic._

_“I do wonder what the citizens of both worlds would say if they could see how you allow a veritable stranger debauch you like this,” he mused, setting a cruel, languid tempo with his fingers. He punctuated his words with a sharp suck on her pearl. “Do you think you deserve to come right now, Warrior of Darkness?”_

_Khione bucked her hips in answer, whimpering and pleading. “Yes, please, gods yes.”_

_“Since you asked nicely….” The rush he got from taunting her, from lording his control over her, had his cock weeping with pre-cum, twitching and aching as it stood tall and proud, curving slightly towards his stomach. He added a third finger, and began pumping her faster, sucking at her clit harder, both of them frantic until Khione arched off the bed with a sharp cry, spilling herself into G’raha’s eager mouth. She tasted of old wishes fulfilled and new wishes created, and he knew that he would do this every day if she asked him to._

_When at last he had finished licking up every drop of her orgasm, G’raha slowly climbed over Khione, gently kissing the bruised and bleeding marks he’d bitten._

_“Tell me what you want, Little Warrior,” he purred, slanting his mouth over hers in a tender kiss that she eagerly returned._

_“Your cock. Fill me, make me yours.”_

_“Only if you ask me nicely.”_

_Khione hissed at the command in his voice, baring her teeth. Needy, wicked little thing._

_“I’m waiting.”_

_He grinned at the way she pouted, her mouth wobbling into a close approximation of humility and deference. “P-please fill me and make me yours, Crystal Exarch.”_

_“That wasn’t so hard, was it?”_


	26. When Pigs Fly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A quick break from the Grand G'raha's Memories Anthology.

"No. Abso-fucking-lutely not," Khione huffs, crossing her arms over her chest as she pouts at Sollielle. "I've told you a million times, Sol, I don't wear pink. Ever. Period. When pigs fucking fly."

Sollielle rolls her eyes and shifts her weight to one hip, giving her friend an incredulous look. "Khione, the ball is tomorrow and we don't have time to get this gown dyed before then."

"I don't even see why I have to go to this stupid event."

"You're the Warrior of Light and one of Ishgard's most preeminent citizens, plus the daughter of two of our best astrologians, Kiki. Your presence is all but mandatory."

Khione groans and flops back on Sollielle's bed, glaring at the canopy.

"Do you have anything less pink and poofy, at the very least? If I show up looking like some little girl's doll wrapped up in a ridiculous pink cloud of a dress, I don't think anyone's going to ever let me live it down."

Sollielle thinks for a moment, then grins so wickedly that Khione instantly regrets her question.

The elezen disappears into her large closet, only to re-emerge a moment later with a black garment bag that looks full to bursting.

"Close your eyes."

Khione sighs, but obeys, listening as she hears fabric rustling. A few seconds later, Sollielle pokes her in the shoulder. 

"Okay, you can open them, and you're welcome."

Khione's heart stops as Sollielle offers her a gown that has obviously been tailor-made to Khione's proportions. While still a voluminous mass of silk and chiffon and petticoats, the gown is a soft, stormy grey-blue with off-the-shoulder sleeves dipping into a deep sweetheart neckline, a fitted bodice of white, silver, and blue fabric that creates a gauzy, hazy effect as it tapers at her hips and then unleashes a cloud of raining crystals at the top of the skirt, the drops becoming more sparse towards the bottom.

"I will let you wear something as hideous as that dress," Sollielle chuckles, "when pigs fly."


	27. Gloaming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gloaming: The time between sundown and full dark; dusk

G’raha smiles at the memory of their first coupling, a sad, bitter smile that held only the barest vestiges of joy. It had certainly been a memorable start to relationship between the mysterious, anonymous Crystal Exarch and the vibrant Warrior of Darkness. They’d spent the entire rest of that day wandering around The Crystarium, sharing the smallest of touches, ducking into hidden alcoves to steal wistful kisses that left them both breathless, basking in the newfound feeling of no longer being alone atop their respective pedestals.

He finishes his tea, shuddering at the bitterness, and thinks about the happy, peaceful moments they shared before his capture by Emet-Selch. 

After that first, beautiful morning, they developed a new routine, somehow without the Scions ever noticing: Wake up at the half-bell before dawn, Khione would go on a run around The Crystarium while the Crystal Exarch himself cooked breakfast for them both in the grand kitchen of the Crystal Tower — it had been a particularly joyous discovery, many long years ago. She’d return and bathe, or she’d return and jump his old bones; they’d enjoy breakfast together in her suite before parting ways to go about their daily business. In the evenings, sometimes, he’d treat her to a fine dinner and a quiet walk around the city, before they’d make their way back to whichever bed was closest. Most nights, he’d bind her eyes and hands with aether and cloth, but some nights, when one or the other had had a particularly long day, they’d simply fall into a comfortable, tired silence of reading or sharpening blades or the small things that make an existence into a life.

But even in those days, she’d deserved better than a man who refused to even show her his face, who refused to tell her of his plans to sacrifice himself. He had not been fair to her, and yet she had still invited him into her bed night after night, had still trusted him with stories of the man she’d loved and the way he’d lit up her life like wildfire, had still shared her highest hopes and fiercest fears with him. 

The way she’d looked at him when his hood had been blown back had made him want to die on the spot. He’d almost gotten his wish. He was grateful he hadn’t.

G’raha’s chest aches anew when her gentle, battle-ragged smile flashes across his mind, illuminated by the pale light of clearing haze and new dawn amidst the ruins of Amaurot. The way she had simply waved off his apologies, tucked such conversations away for another time, had taken the weight of the Star off his heavy heart, had reignited the spark and optimism of youth he’d long thought dead.

_“Tis good to see you awake, G’raha Tia.” Khione’s voice was so warm and affectionate and relieved that it was as good as being physically embraced, and G’raha didn’t even bother fighting the tears that sprang to his eyes at the promise shining in glittering disks of moon silver._

_“Well… ‘Tis good to be awake!”_

_It was the first time in many, many years he remembered feeling such unbridled, unyielding, refulgent joy, knowing that the woman he’d loved since his halcyon youth not only forgave him his trespasses, but also reciprocated his affections, and that now he had the time and opportunity to truly act on them._

_Those first few days following Emet-Selch’s defeat were a blurry whirlwind of activity, primarily on Khione’s part since G’raha was confined to bedrest under threat of scolding from Lyna, the Scions, Chessamile, and Khione herself._

_In the evenings, she would bring him dinner — generally simple Ishgardian fare and the occasional Doman stir fry — and they would chat about whatever small adventures Khione had gone on that day, or discuss books and theories and other safe, miscellaneous topics that wouldn’t raise G’raha’s blood pressure too much. Some of those nights, Khione would fall asleep hugging him from behind, her face buried in his back while her hands clung to the simple cotton tunics he wore during convalescence, as though she was scared he might disappear while she slept. Other nights, she would excuse herself with a promise to return in the morning to accompany him for a pre-dawn walk, and with an unreadable smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes._

_One morning, as they sat at a little table near the Crystalline Mean, enjoying fresh coffee and scones from the bakery in the Musica Unversalis, and watching the sky turn from midnight velvet blue to dark blue-grey to pale dawn grey and finally into the rosy hues of sunrise, G’raha finally plucked up the courage to broach the conversation that had been simmering and stewing between them since that moment in Amaurot’s burned-out husk._

_“Khione,” he sighed, setting down his coffee cup to fix his sanguine gaze upon his would-be beloved (that was another conversation they’d not yet had, and only slightly less important than the conversation he was currently attempting). Khione turned slowly to meet his eyes, one eyebrow raised slightly._

_“Yes?”_

_G’raha took a deep breath, and then another, slipping halfway into the collected composure of the Crystal Exarch — just enough to calm his racing heartbeat and anxious mind in order to form coherent thoughts and words._

_“I meant what I said…. Back in Amaurot, I mean. I owe you countless apologies for everything I put you through, and I will understand if you cannot find it in yourself to forgive me.”_

_Khione’s answering silence pained him as much as Emet-Selch’s bullet had._

_“You’re going to have to be more specific, G’raha. There are many things for which you need to apologise, so I suggest you prioritise.”_

_He felt his mouth twitch into a grimace, and wished desperately that he could retreat into the shadows of his hood again._

_“Yes, well, I suppose I deserve that…. Admittedly, I have little idea of where to even begin with begging for forgiveness, though I imagine the lyi—”_

_“I just want to know one thing,” Khione said, her voice quiet and cold and calculating. “Why?”_

_G’raha couldn’t decide if he wanted to prostrate himself at her feet, or weep, or both, but there was an overwhelming sense of relief crashing through him at the fact that she wasn’t dismissing him completely out of hand._

_“Because I love you.”_

_He had dreamt of saying those words to her for literal centuries, had believed this greatest truth a secret he would take with him to his grave. To give them voice now, with Khione sitting across the little breakfast table from him, watching his every move, was almost surreal. Almost._

_Khione quirked her brow higher, expression still unreadable. “Explain.”_

_And so, he did. He explained to her the abject fear and depression that had gripped him upon learning of her demise in the Eighth Umbral Calamity; the urgent hope that had filled his breast when he and the survivors of the Ironworks had figured out this last, desperate plan. He told her of the century he’d spent waiting, building the Crystarium into something full of life and beauty just to distract himself from the overwhelming anxiety of the path that laid before him; of the disappointment that crashed through him with each failed summoning. Khione began scooting her chair closer to him as he described the joy and hope and love that had bloomed in his chest when at last, she spoke with him in that space between space, and when he beheld her standing outside the Exarch Gate. He apologised one hundred times over for every lie, every half-truth, every command that sent her into the jaws of danger. They wept together, emotions raw and jagged, as he apologised for leaving her those many years ago, and as he apologised for thinking so little of her feelings that he was willing to sacrifice himself without ever giving her a chance to say goodbye. And, when at last they’d dried their tears, G’raha placed his hand over Khione’s, looked her dead in the eyes, his face earnest and open and filled with that unyielding love, and repeated those three words._

_“Khione North, I love you.”_

_Khione smiled, a small, hopeful thing that wobbled like a baby bird on a tree branch, and gently eased herself to perch on his leg, hooking an arm around his shoulder and neck while she rested her forehead against his._

_“G’raha…. I love you too. I have since first we met, and I have never stopped….” She took a deep breath, closing her eyes, while G’raha’s heart all but stopped in his chest, blood running cold. “But I need some time to think on all of this. Of course I forgive you, you loon, but you’ve been lying to me and manipulating me for many, many moons, and I can’t just forget those facts.”_

_She pressed a heartbreakingly tender kiss to his forehead, then slipped out of his arms and walked towards the Pendants to prepare for her return to the Source later that day._

_For a full moon-span, G’raha did not sleep, barely ate, and only rarely spoke to anyone else outside of purely official matters. Even when Urianger came to discuss theories about how to transport the Scions back to the Source, G’raha kept his words brief and concise, his mind ever turned to the sorceress-shaped hole in his heart and the dread that threatened to fill it._


	28. Irenic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peaceful

A dark wind, ice-laden and bladed with sharp fury and fear, howls through the halls of Mithrai Glorianda, dusting ancient rooms in a veil of suffocating frost.

Cailleach stands in the centre of the throne room, a missive clutched in razor-clawed hand, bearing news of further movement by the Ancients who seek to claim her Crown and life, news of machinations by their foes to topple her from her throne.

She is resplendent in her wrath, magic tinkling around her like thousands of warning bells, heralding the winter storm brewing in the King's strong, fragile body, begging to be unleashed upon the unconquered peoples of Norvrandt.

She paces like an angered cat, snarling in ancient languages, until she suddenly pauses, smoothing out the silken corset bodice of her icy blue gown, the nonexistent creases in her inky leather leggings. The train of her garment, formed of a thousand metallic silver icicles, clinks and jingles as she moves, the music of it punctuated by the _tic tac tic tac_ of her black heels against the marble floor.

The pixies who attend her wisely hover at the edges of the room, cowering from their King's liquid-starlight eyes full of rage and insecurity. There is little of the irenic Warrior of Darkness apparent in the monarch, in the howling fury that echoes in the wind.

"Come to me, [Dark Heart]," she hisses, the summons carrying along the frozen air of the grand palace.


	29. Paternal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: Khione was originally designed as an idea for a main character/NPC rather than the WoL. This is related to that original idea, and with the story I kind of created around it.
> 
> Feel free to message me if you want to know more!

Hades, despite having sired many, _many_ , many children, has never thought of himself as particularly paternal. His numerous offspring were always a means to an end, part of his various mortal disguises, and he’s never felt any particular closeness to any of them.

 _Probably because none of them were born of the union between himself and his soulmate_ , he often muses to himself.

So he thought.

And then, the mysterious little mortal, the one calling herself Khione, danced into his life and turned everything he’s ever believed about why Melinoia left on its head.

He is grateful, at least, that the high and mighty Warrior of Light was just as unaware of Khione’s true identity as he was.

Khione is not a mortal. She is not the daughter of some nameless, faceless Ishgardian couple as she had originally told them all when this ragtag group set out on the quest to save the Warrior of Light’s soul. She is most certainly not a humble thaumaturge.

Melinoe Chione Agesander is his daughter, born of his soulmate Melinoia Hecate Despoine, Azem of the Convocation of Fourteen. She is a mighty sorceress in her own right, having studied the magic of souls from her brilliant, beautiful mother, as well as that school of magic the mortals call 'The Black.' She is the last Child and Heir of Amaurot, born on the morning of the Final Day. She is Melinoia's daughter, and she is _his_ daughter.

Melinoe is so _very_ like her mother that it physically _pains_ him to look at her now that the ancient glamour cast upon her by her dying mother has dissolved fully; now that he can see the shimmering molten silver so much like Melinoia’s, yet tinged with his own gold in glittering flecks; the high cheekbones and sharp, narrow face.

He sees himself in her, as well. She has his wry, clever wit and the smirking smile to match. Her hair, she tells him, is naturally white like his — she has always dyed it midnight sky blue, simply because she likes the colour. She is loyal and fierce in her emotions, but guarded and reserved, always keeping the roiling power within her in check. 

His daughter was raised by ghosts. Gifted with her late mother's ability to commune with souls long past, as well as with her father's connection to the Underworld, much of Melinoe's journey upon this Star and its shards was guided by the departed spirits of her parents' dearest friends. His heart breaks at the thought of how lonely she must have been for these twelve thousand years.

There is hope for her, yet, though. Hades can see it in the way she and the former Crystal Exarch — G'raha Tia, yet another doomed soul given a second chance — have bonded. As protective as he feels over his daughter, even Hades must admit that the young miqo'te male is a worthy suitor for the Last Heir of Amaurot. He supposes he will simply have to have a chat with the young man before this adventure is complete.

For the first time in his very long life, Hades Agesander feels the brilliant spark of paternal, parental love beating in his near-withered heart. 

This is his beloved’s final gift to him — a chance to get to know their daughter, to teach her all he can before the extra time that Melinoia has bought for him runs out once more, to be the father that he always dreamt of being. Before he is allowed to enter the Underworld, hand in hand with Melinoia, he will teach their daughter, the testament of their everlasting love for one another, what it means to be a child of the Ancients, and what it means to carry on their legacy. Most importantly, though, he will teach her that no matter what, even with her family and her people turned to naught but glittering specks of light, she is loved, and that there is great power in that love. 


	30. Splinter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy <3

It has been six moons since they returned to the Source.

Six moons since Melinoia freed her from the curse.

Six moons since she placed the soul vessel over G’raha’s sleeping, beating heart and prayed to all the gods for the best.

Six moons since his centuries-old soul opened its eyes of striking scarlet on the Source once more.

Six moons since they rejoined the Scions together, hand-in-hand, inseparable.

Six moons since their normal, mortal lives resumed…. Supposedly.

It has been more than that since last she let him _touch_ her. It was one full moon before she allowed him back into her bed merely for companionship and closeness during their sleeping hours.

It’s not that Khione has not _felt_ that hungry, levin-charged physical attraction to G’raha — if anything, the residual traces of Cailleach that she will never be able to shake; the heightened senses, the strange ethereal grace, the innate desire to be claimed and to claim in return; have made her feel it tenfold. 

But Khione is _scared_. She does not entirely recognise herself anymore.

Her hair is still the same shade of inky midnight blue it has always been, although the white tips and streaks are new, yet another parting gift from Cailleach.

Her eyes are still moon silver, flecked with bits of bronze and gold, but now they have an almost metallic, molten quality to them that catches her off guard every time she sees her own reflection.

Everything about her is the same, and yet different, and she feels almost like a stranger in her own body at times.

But it is her magic that scares her the most.

Khione North has always been gifted in magic. She learned to control it at an early age, and it has always been as natural to her as drawing breath.

Well, it **was** as natural as drawing breathe until Cailleach took it and twisted it into something dark and Other.

Of course, Cailleach is just as much a part of Khione as Azem — _has_ **_always_** been a part of Khione.

Now, Khione fears that she might lose control over her magic if she opens this last, locked door with G’raha.

She misses physical intimacy, but she knows she would miss G’raha more if she accidentally hurt him…or worse.

G’raha finds her meditating on this. She is curled up on the bed in the reading alcove of their little cottage in the Central Highlands, in one of his jumpers and a pair of simple cotton leggings, watching snow fall outside the window.

She can feel his gaze upon her; worried, helpless, lost scarlet eyes begging her to let him back in.

Perhaps it is something about the swirling snowdrifts and the crackling babble of the flames in the fireplace, soothing her jagged, splintered, fractured heart. Perhaps it is G’raha’s warmth as he curls up behind her, taking her into his lap to rest his chin atop her head, to join her in comfortable silence for as long as she needs; but whatever it is, Khione decides that perhaps it is time to at least _try_ , because she can’t keep being afraid for the rest of her life. Not when Melinoia bade her **_live_**.

Khione turns in G’raha’s arms, and reaches up to cradle his warm, familiar face in her too-pale hands that are always cold no matter how close to the fire she holds them — another gift from Cailleach, no doubt.

“May I kiss you?” she murmurs, her voice small and tentative and tinged with hope. G’raha smiles — tender, beautiful, so loving that it makes Khione want to cry from the sheer love it conveys — and nods, dipping his head down to slant his lips over hers.

He tastes like hot cocoa and cinnamon and something spicy and herbal, her beloved soul mate, and it helps to awaken that long-dormant part of her that Cailleach nearly twisted beyond repair. She decides that yes, she will throw her fears and caution to the wind as she deepens the kiss, hands moving to unfasten his suspenders and unbutton his shirt.

He stops her, and makes her meet his gaze.

“Are you quite sure?” he whispers, resting his forehead against hers. She can see the shadows that dance in his soul, that haunt him just as she is haunted by raging hailstorms and frozen mists of blood, and it helps to further unlock her, to remind her that she is not in this alone.

“Yes,” her words are confident, assured, a glimmer of her former self shining through.

He smiles at her once more and reclaims her lips, chuckling as she finishes ridding him of his shirt and begins to work on his trousers. When she finally pushes them off of his hips and down to his ankles, G’raha guides Khione to lie back so he can begin to undress her. He blessedly lets her keep the jumper, but gently pulls down her leggings and panties, leaning to press a tender kiss to the inside of each bite mark-scarred thigh before carefully exploring her folds with a single finger, testing, his eyes never leaving her face as he watches her every reaction.

It feels _good_. 

Khione can feel her body coming back to life, and she gives G’raha a small nod, watching him as he watches her. He kisses her again, and adds a second finger, both slipping into her entrance with a slow sort of intention. G’raha has memorised Khione’s body in its every iteration, and he is unafraid of loving it, scars and all.

He catches her every gasp in his mouth, swallows them whole as he gently pumps his fingers in and out.

Khione knows she should be embarrassed by how quickly she finishes, knows she should be embarrassed by the pathetic whimpering noise she makes when she comes, but all she can feel is relief and pleasure and a desire for more now that she knows release will not destroy her hold over her magic.

“Would you like me to continue, Khione?” G’raha asks, pressing a kiss to her hairline, her brow, the tip of her nose, her lips.

“Yes, please,” Khione murmurs, tugging his hips down, chuckling to find him already quite hard. “I’m sorry I haven’t—”

“You have nothing to apologise for, my beautiful Little Bird. I am just grateful that we are alive and we are together.”

Khione nods, and G’raha enters her — just barely, just the silky head of his cock, but it is enough to coax a little moan from her, and she buries her face in his neck, hugs him close.

He pushes in with small thrusts, and she takes him ilm by ilm. It is like remembering how to spell her own name, the way their bodies fit together so perfectly. He fills her so completely, and not just physically. His soul ebbs and flows with hers, filling in all of the cracks and smoothing out the rough edges.

G’raha gives her a few moments to adjust to him before he begins moving. He takes his time to let her relearn his body, lets her explore his mouth with her tongue, his torso with her hands. He is so, so delightfully warm, and he floods her body with that warmth, seeping down to her frozen heart.

Neither of them last very long, as pent up as they have both been since their return to The Source, and when they come, they come together, crying out each other’s names and sealing it with one last, fiery kiss that snaps Khione back to sharp reality.

Afterwards, G’raha makes them both mugs of hot chocolate sweetened with vanilla and a tiny hint of coffee, _just_ the way Khione likes it. They curl up under the covers of their bed, watching the snow together.

“I love you, G’raha,” Khione murmurs, reaching up to steal another of those tender kisses.

“I love you too, Khione.”

And all is well.


	31. Afterword

**Odds and Ends**

I hope you all have enjoyed this journey as much as I have. It hasn't been easy, and some days, it's felt a little like herding cats while pulling teeth, but I'm glad I did it, and I'm glad you all joined me.

None of this would have been possible if not for the lovely souls of Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club. Literally. I didn't start writing fanfiction until I joined it. As such, I want to thank all of them for their love and support and enabling.

Thank you, Star, Eliniel, Ginger, Ember, Frost, Celestial, and Lumi, for helping to inspire me and for giving me a lot of great advice. I'm sorry for my fifty million messages, but also not sorry.

Thank you, Cethys, for being my #1 Fan/Commenter (which apparently isn't even a word?) You helped my motivation more than you could ever know.... got it _memorised?_

Thank you, Tria and Sil, for sharing my love of cat boys, and for inviting me into the pillow fort and giving me hugs when I needed snuggles and love.

There are so many other people I _should_ name, but then we'd be here for literal days, and ain't nobody got time for that. If you want to meet them, come join us in Book Club. We don't bite unless asked.

Most importantly (always save the best for last), I want to thank **_you_** **,** dear readers, for your love and support. Thank you for clicking on this humble compilation in the first place, and if you're reading this, then thank you for sticking with me.

While FFXIVwrite2020 is over, Khione's and G'raha's adventures have only just begun, so keep an eye out in the coming days! I'm currently working on two long fics: **"We All Have a Hunger,"** set in a modern AU, and focusing on the connections and relationships that make life worth living; and **"Gloria Regali,** " set in an alternate ending to 5.3 where our favourite black mage and her cat boy have become the King and Consort of the Fae — its focus is mainly on the (this is about to sound super cheesy but I'm tired and just don't judge me) strength of a love that transcends time, space, and curses.

I'll also probably put out some more one-shots based on both of these AUs.

If you have any questions, or just want to talk, feel free to leave me a comment or a direct message. I check email and Discord constantly, so I'll reply as soon as I can.

On that note, dear reader, I bid you a fond "see you around."

-Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> If you're a writer and/or reader of FFXIV fanfiction, and you want more awesome content, come join us at [Emet-Selch's Wholesomely Debauched and Enabling Book Club!](https://discord.gg/ymjZVaf)


End file.
